


spark, meet tinder

by amillionsmiles



Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, but with a happy ending bc fanfic exists to FIX THAT SHIT, despite the tongue-in-cheek summary this is not crack i promise LOL, this is lowkey a massive shade post @ sophomore year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-01 19:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: "Lara Jean, you can't just sit here in your room swiping on boys you're never going to meet.  You've got to tell people how you feel, when you feel it."or: Lara Jean goes to college, installs Tinder, and, well.  The rest, they say, is history.





	1. august (it's a match)

**Author's Note:**

> _"If love is like a possession, maybe my letters are like my exorcisms.”_ -Jenny Han
> 
> this fic is my exorcism. dedicated to all the friends in my life who have better taste in fictional men than they do real ones. you know who you are.

If anyone would be up at 6 AM on a Sunday morning, it’d be my older sister Margot.

I watch her on my laptop screen, waiting for her to finish rubbing the sleep from her eyes.  I’ve found a cozy little alcove in which to conduct our Skype call, and if you ignore the occasional burst of laughter from down the hall, it almost feels like I’m in my room back home.

“Well?” Margot finally asks, adjusting the angle of her camera.  “How was the first day of orientation?”

“Good.” I rotate the mug I’ve been balancing on my knee to show her.  “There was a concert, and then I went to this thing afterwards where they gave us free mugs to decorate.”  Mine’s black, with my initials doodled on, fancy monogram style.  Classic with a touch of kitsch.

Margot peers closer at it.  “That’s nice. It’s what, 1 AM over there?”

“Yep.  There’s something going on at the pool until 2, but I got tired, so.  ...Hey, do you think I should join Chi Alpha?”

“That’s the Christian fellowship, right?”

“Yeah.  They’re the ones who put on this mug thing tonight.”

Margot scoffs.  “Are you really going to become a Bible girl?”

“Margot!” I make a face at her.  “That’s rude.  I think they’re nice.  And you know Grandma would like it.”  Grandma attends the local Korean church religiously, in part because it’s her main pipeline of gossip.  We only pray when she’s over or if we’re eating at the fancy dining room table, though those two events tend to go hand in hand.  I do wonder if maybe we’d have stayed more devout, if Mom were still alive.

“I suppose she would.  Well, college _is_ the time to try new things, so if that’s really what you’re interested in, then go for it.  What time do the dining halls open for breakfast?”

“Eight.”  I yawn, resting my cheek against my knee.  “But I’m sleeping in.”

Margot’s about to say something, but she gets interrupted by someone passing by.  “Hey, Lara Jean!”

I whip my head up and wave a little maniacally.  I can’t help it.  It feels nice to be acknowledged here; it’s so different from high school already.  Back there I was just quiet, under the radar—Principal Hammond even pronounced my name wrong at graduation.

“Who was that?” Margot raises an eyebrow.

“That was Jerry.  He lives on my floor.”

“That’s good that you’re making friends already!  How’s your roommate?”

At this, I hesitate, suddenly fascinated with the strings of my pajama shorts.

“Lara Jean.”

“She’s…nice?” I duck my head.

Alex, my roommate, is from Florida, and pretty in that perky, sunkissed sort of way.  She’s got long, dark brown hair with highlights, and is part Turkish, part Italian.  She moved in a day earlier than me, probably because she was out-of-state, and we made a bit of small talk while I set up my side of the room—mostly me asking if it was okay to put a rug down, and could we move that dresser—but then she’d darted out with her friends, and I hadn’t really seen her since.

Margot does this half-sigh thing, her patented noise of disapproval.  “Lara Jean, you’re going to be living with this person for the next eight months.  You need to make sure you’re comfortable enough with her to set down rules.”

“All right.”

“So go do that, right now.”

“What, Margot—”

“No excuses!  I’m going back to sleep.”  And then she hangs up on me.  Rude.

Grumbling to myself, I shut my laptop and slide off the chair. 

If anyone can make me do something, it’s Margot, even though she’s all the way in Scotland.  I guess that’s how it is with older sisters—their power never truly diminishes with distance or time.

 

♡

 

“Oh, hey, you’re still up.”  Closing the door behind me, I walk over to my desk to recharge my laptop.  Alex lowers her phone and rolls over to peer down at me from her vantage point—she lofted her bed, so I have to crane my neck upwards to actually make eye contact.

“Yeah.” She tilts her head.  “Cute mug.”

“It was from the Chi Alpha event,” I tell her.  There’s an awkward pause; I can feel Margot invisibly drilling holes in the back of my head with her eyes, even though she’s across the Atlantic.  “How’s your night been?”

“Pretty good, but I need classes to hurry up and start already.  Hey, what do you think of this guy?” 

I step forward, reaching up to accept the offered phone.  The guy in the picture has curly blonde hair and piercing green eyes, made even more prominent by the camera angle: a slightly overhead shot that focuses on his face while still providing proof that he has abs.

I clear my throat.  “He looks… uh…”

“Kind of fuckboy-ish,” Alex decides before I can articulate the proper words.  She retracts her arm and rolls onto her back.  “Well, left it is.”

“You’re on Tinder?”

She shoots me a look.  “Who isn’t?”  And then, amending: “I mean, I guess you don’t need to be.”

That catches me off guard.  What kind of aura have I been giving off?  “Why not?”

“You have a boyfriend, right?” She indicates the collage of photos I’ve put up on my wall, and I follow her gaze to one in particular.  It was taken at the beginning of my sophomore year: I’m sitting on the trunk of Josh Sanderson’s car while he stands next to me, key dangling from his ring finger.  My younger sister Kitty’s in the picture, too, squeezed right between us.  It does look a little couple-y from an outsider’s perspective, I realize.

“Oh, no, Josh is my sister’s boyfriend.  Or—was.  They broke up two years ago, but they’re still friends, since he’s my next-door neighbor and everything…” I don't need to be going into this messy history right now, especially the part where I might have been a little bit in love with him.  For a time.  “I’ve never had a boyfriend,” I finish lamely.

Alex lights up.  “Well then, now’s the perfect time to start seeking.” She practically jumps off her bed—I twitch slightly at the loud _thunk_ of her feet hitting the ground.  Before I know it, she’s in my space, palm facing upward.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re making you a Tinder.  Trust me, I’m great at dating profiles; I do them for all my friends.”

I hide my phone behind my back.  “I’m not really sure dating apps are for me…”

“Because you’re an old-school romantic?”

Well.  It’s not that I don’t believe you can find love online, and I’m all too guilty of developing hopeless, starry-eyed crushes on strangers.  Margot once said that I was _“in love with love,”_ which isn’t far from the truth.  My favorite part of romance movies and novels is that pivotal moment where the main character realizes that they’ve fallen, irrevocably.  For example, my aunt and uncle had their moment during the first day of freshmen orientation.  Or, my uncle did—it took my aunt another three years to come around.  Still, that’s what I’m holding out for, and the whole mindless swiping game feels like it might take away from that.

“Look, Lara Jean,” says Alex, leaning against my desk.  “You can still have your sweeping, toe-curling romance.  Tinder’s just, like, the vetting process.  So that if you do see a cutie in Chem class, and you saw him on the app the other day, you know he’s fair game.”

When you put it that way…

“Okay, fine,” I say, bringing my phone out from behind my back.  As I navigate to the App Store to download it, I clarify, “But I’m only using it to browse.”

Alex’s eyes sparkle like she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t say anything.  When the download’s complete, I look to her for guidance.

“Can we sit on your bed?” she asks.

“Yeah.”  The springs squeak as we both clamber on.  In my head, I’m thinking, _When Margot said to bond with your roommate, I’m not sure she meant randomly creating a dating profile the day before classes start,_ but c’est la vie. 

Right away, Alex takes the reins, practically plucking my phone from my hands.  “Men or women?”   

“Men, I – I guess,” I stammer, thrown off by her sudden aggressiveness.

Alex raises an eyebrow.  “We can unpack that later.  Okay, so first step is pictures…”

Luckily, I’ve got a pretty good selection.  This past summer, we took a family trip to Korea, leaving me with a fair amount of candids, plus the street fashion photoshoot I managed to convince Margot and Kitty to do with me for fun.  Kitty especially enjoyed it; she’s got her fierce face down pat.  Afterwards, we agreed that if we were a 90s girl group, a la the Spice Girls, Kitty could take Scary Spice, no question.  Margot would be Posh, and I’m somewhere in between that and Baby.   

“Damn, these boots, though,” says Alex, ogling a pair I bought for 34,000 won—about 30 dollars.  There’s an appreciative glint in her eye; I think her estimation of my cool factor has just gone up. 

Some of the shots she picks for my profile make me seem edgier than I really am, but she quickly assures me that’s okay: “Sweet with a kick of spice—guys _love_ that.”

We finish writing my bio, and then Alex hands my phone back with a flourish.

“All right, now swipe,” she instructs, flicking her finger through the air.

It takes me a while to get into the rhythm of it.  At first, I feel guilty.  Everyone I’m assessing in under a second is a person, after all.  There are some cute guys with frustratingly blank bios; I pass on those.  Others I get stuck on, imagining whole backstories in my head, toggling between photos of them with family, holding puppies, jumping into pools.  There’s one guy, Adrian, with dark hair and a beanie, who says he likes _waffles, 90s punk music, and books,_ and I spend some time wondering what _kind_ of books until Alex groans and leans over.

“Hey!” I yelp.  “I said I was just going to browse!”

“Relax, Lara Jean.” She rolls her eyes.  “He still has to match with you back, and if you end up being too chicken to talk to him, then just don’t.”

I bite my lip.  So that’s that, I guess—my first swipe right.  It’s a little uneventful, but my profile _is_ super new, and it’s now… 2:15 AM?  Time sure does fly. 

Right as I decide to call it quits at 2:30, I find him.

  

> _**Peter, 18** _
> 
> _6’ 0” Lacrosse_
> 
> _Fight Club & chocolate milkshakes_
> 
> _Kombucha is valid you all are just mean_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was actually supposed to just be a long-ass oneshot but I'm breaking it up into chapters bc I'm impatient and also it heightens the Drama I guess (although not really bc i'm a weenie so it's mostly just going to be good ol' fashioned slow burn fun)
> 
> anyhow feed me your funniest (or cringiest) tinder stories on [tumblr!](https://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com/) <3 ;)


	2. send a message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those asking me about peter and lara jean's history in this verse... here ya go ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Peter as in Peter Kavinsky.  Peter Kavinsky of _Peter and Gen,_ the supercouple of my high school years.  They started dating in 8th grade, and aside from the break they took during junior year, they’d stuck fast.  I was so sure I’d heard they were going to try for long distance, with Peter playing lacrosse here at UVA and Gen at VCU, only a little more than an hour away. 

I wonder if Chris knows what happened.  Even though my best friend and Gen hate each other’s guts, they’re still cousins, and Chris has a way of finding out about these things.  Then again, Chris is taking a gap year in Costa Rica, so she’s probably left all the petty high school drama behind.

Out of curiosity, I flip through Peter’s photos.  He’s still as handsome as I remember: tall, dark brown eyes and hair, an easy way of finding the camera that oozes charisma.  There’s a picture of him with his mom and his younger brother, Owen, which brings a smile to my face.  Family is important to me; I like that he isn’t afraid to share his on here.

He was my first kiss.  It’s strange to think about now: 7th grade, my first boy-girl party, Gen’s basement.  Back when we were all friends.  But people change so much between middle school and high school.  College, too.  I remember when Margot came home winter break of freshman year—she’d cut her hair into a bob, and the air between us was different.  She’d always been the capable one in our family. Living abroad had only solidified that.  But what she hadn’t anticipated was that I would grow up, too, in her absence.  The first few days felt like an invisible power struggle; I’d suggest something for dinner that Margot didn’t agree with, or Kitty would defer to me instead of her.  We worked it out, eventually—Song girls for life—but it makes me wonder how I’m going to change these next few months.  I plan on visiting home as often as I can, but what if I get so caught up in extracurriculars and everything else happening on campus? 

I don’t realize I’ve zoned out until Alex says, “Lara Jean, why are you even stalling on him, he’s hot!” and swipes for me, again. 

My first thought is: _We need to have a conversation about personal space._

The second: _Oh god what has she done._

My phone vibrates.  Horrified, I watch _IT’S A MATCH_ appear on my screen, prompting me to _Send a Message_ or _Keep Swiping._

“See, look, he likes you!” Alex grins.

This is surreal.  I can’t believe I just matched with Peter Kavinsky.

I mean, it’s not like I was totally invisible in high school.  We acknowledged each other in passing, when he wasn’t with Gen, who inexplicably started hating my guts around the same time she dropped me as a friend.  I wonder if he swiped for old time’s sake—that’s a thing, right?  Unless he really does think I’m cute.  Not that I care about validation from _him_.  His yearbook quote was “You’re welcome.”  Who does that?

My phone buzzes again.

_Lol covey wouldn’t have pegged you being on tinder_

Opening and closing my mouth, my fingers hover over the keyboard.  Instead of being nervous, I’m now annoyed.  What does that even _mean?_

And anyways, I’ve got bigger fish to fry—more important questions to ask.

_What happened with you and Gen?_

It takes Peter a long time to reply.  Five minutes during which I open Snapchat, scroll through Instagram, and fume silently, because he was literally _just_ on and I know he’s making me wait.  Finally, he texts back: 

_you know, most girls would wait to ask about the ex until the 3 rd or 4th date_

Ha!

_I’m not trying to date you, Peter Kavinsky._

Immediately after I send the message, though, I panic.  Does that make me sound like I’m just looking for a hook-up instead?  Because I don’t want to hook-up, either.  On the other end, Peter remains silent, and my palms start to sweat as I try to compose a follow-up, when he finally says:

_OK whatever you say covey_

I wait a little longer, but nothing else.  He’s being awfully close-lipped about him and Gen, which leads me to think she’s the one who broke up with him.  Again.  Come to think of it, has Peter ever actually had the upper hand in that relationship?

I feel a little bad for him, and for poking a wound that must still be sore.  Closing the app, I set an alarm for 10 AM and shoo Alex off my bed.  It’s been a long night, and we’ve still got more orientation programming tomorrow.  I have to track down as many PDFs as possible for my classes, otherwise I’ll have to dish out money at the bookstore or hope all the offerings on the Free & For Sale Facebook group haven’t been snapped up yet.  Better things to worry about than an old crush.

Whatever is right.

♡

 

As luck would have it, I am in a class with Peter Kavinsky.  COMM 1100: Understanding the World of Business.  I took it because I’m not sure what I want to major in yet, and both Margot and my dad thought it’d be useful. 

Back in high school, I didn’t get Margot-level grades, but I did well enough.  And I’ve always loved the organizational part of school: the highlighters, the sticky-notes, the satisfaction of opening a fresh set of pens.  I’m in the middle of writing the date in my notebook when I spot Peter.  His hair’s wet—probably straight out of a post-morning-practice shower—and he surveys the lecture hall for an open seat.  Quickly, I pretend not to have noticed him, but not fast enough: he catches my eye and grins.

“Hey, Covey,” he says, sliding into the seat next to me. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask, as if this is my turf and not a school with 16,000 undergrads, twelve of whom are from my graduating class.

Peter’s too busy digging for a spiral to answer.  Eventually, though, his head pops back up and he uncaps his pen with his teeth, leaning back in his chair and regarding me with a perfectly raised eyebrow.  Sometimes I wonder if his confidence comes from knowing he’s handsome.  But that’s not right, because even back in middle school, when he was scrawny and went by Peter K instead of Kavinsky, people still gravitated towards him.

“I’m taking this class because I’m debating between pre-business or pre-law.  Can’t play lacrosse forever.”

That makes me feel bad.  I know for a fact that Peter didn't always get the best grades—I’d sometimes hear him and one of his friends, Gabe, at their lockers, complaining about their Cs in chemistry and how the class was “such a bitch,” but Peter’s got more of his future figured out than I do.  Dad would say that I’m young, and that I don’t need to have everything planned out right this moment, but I still get these bursts of anxiety, wondering if I’m just wasting time.   

“Oh.  Well, good for you.”

And I think that’s it, I think I have successfully killed this conversation, until Peter asks, “So, how many other guys got the lucky privilege of matching with Lara Jean?”

My cheeks flare.  He’s teasing; I know he is.  I shouldn’t rise to the bait.

Primly, I fold my hands together on top of my notebook.  “A lady never kisses and tells.”

“Come on, Covey.  Three, five?”  Behind his smirk, there’s a genuine glimmer of curiosity, and I realize—Peter Kavinsky wants to know if he’s special.  Which, as of right now, he sort of is.  Adrian still hasn’t matched with me, no matter how many times I keep opening up Tinder, and I’m too paranoid about being caught swiping that I haven’t had a chance to look at anyone else. 

Still, I refuse to let Peter know that.  Let him wonder.

“Fifteen? Twenty?” Peter raises his count, a note of doubt in his voice.

 I tip my head slightly.  It’s not an outright lie if I don’t _say_ anything, right?

“Girls tend to get more matches than guys.” I’ve read that statistic somewhere.  Although maybe it doesn’t hold true, if you’re Peter Kavinsky.  “Anyways.”  I cough.

Unexpectedly, Peter laughs.  His eyes go all crinkly and his dimples appear.  He’s got a soft face—even when he’s looking at you intensely, it doesn’t feel threatening.  It just makes you feel heard.

“Damn, Covey, you’re a player.”

 

♡

 

I go to the activities fair with this idea that I’ll just wander around until something catches my eye, which is a big mistake.  Booths and tables stretch as far as I can see, various clubs shouting and shaking flyers at anyone who makes eye contact.  Somebody has their chest painted and is waving a flag—I try to identify its symbol, but it keeps rippling in the wind, too fast for me to discern.  I get sandwiched between two acapella groups having a riff-off, darting away before either of them can strong-arm me into auditioning.

By the time I locate a map, I’m so mentally exhausted that I forget to look where I’m going and walk straight into someone.

“Sorry!”

“You’re fine.”  A tall girl turns around.  Her hair’s super long—almost waist level—and dyed pink halfway, from her shoulders down.  She’s wearing a narwhal onesie.  I’m impressed; it takes a certain amount of panache to pull off a getup like that on the first day of classes.

Since it seems like she knows her stuff, I venture: “Do you have any idea where section 5 is?  Arts and media?”

“Oh god, no.”  She looks embarrassed.  “Honestly, I came here with my roommate, then completely lost her.  We could go try and find it together, though?”

“It’s okay, I wouldn’t want to drag you away and have your roommate panic.”

The girl snorts.  “Trust me, Angie probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone, yet.  Come on.”  She starts walking.  I hurry after her.

“I’m Lara Jean,” I say, because that seems like the proper thing to do in this situation.  “Are you also a freshman?”

“Yeah.  Leah.”  Leah stops to let me catch up, beaming and holding out a hand for me to shake.  “Where are you from?”

I pause.  That question’s always a weird one for me—I never know if people mean, like, ethnically, or if they’re just asking after my hometown.

“I’m half-Korean.  Local,” I say, deciding to cover both my bases.  “Just fifteen minutes away.”

Leah’s eyes light up.  “That’s neat,” she says.  “I’m from California.”

California!  No wonder she’s so effortless, so cool.  “Which do you like better, California or here?” 

“Hmm, hard to say yet.  But I like how woodsy it is here.  Everything near me is palm trees and sand.”

We go on like that, exchanging tidbits about ourselves.  I find out Leah’s the youngest of three older brothers.  She plans on becoming a doctor and used to run a mildly famous gaming channel on YouTube, though she had to call it quits because “now it’s about the lab work.”  Together, we manage to track down the table that belongs to V Magazine, the fashion publication on campus, where I talk to a petite brunette girl named Sophie.  Afterwards, I throw restraint out the window and put myself on the mailing lists of the movie club, the painting club, Singing for Seniors, Challah for Hunger, and juggling.  My final stop is the Korean Student Association, where a laid-back, redheaded guy named John and a chipper girl named Yuri explain how the organization is “less about cultural essentialism, and more about, like, awareness and exchange, you know?”

At the end of it, Leah and I exchange numbers and promise to meet up for lunch tomorrow.  My heart sings; I feel like I could skip the whole way back.  I’ve got a new friend and an armful of shiny, glossy magazines to flip through when I return to my dorm.  My college life has only just begun.

 

♡

 

 **(434) 932-8945:** _hey what’s the reading for tonight?_

Out of the corner of my eye, the precarious tower of books mocks me.  Tonight’s reading could be any number of things, depending on who’s asking.

_Who is this?_

**(434) 932-8945:** _? it’s Peter_

Right.  I remember giving him my number at the end of our first day; the lacrosse team has to travel a fair amount and Peter wanted to make sure he had someone to fill him in on what he might miss.  Too preoccupied with planning the route to my next class, I hadn’t paid that much attention during the exchange, or even expected him to use it unless absolutely necessary.

I mean, for God’s sake, he could just log on to Canvas.

I don’t write any of that, though.  As my good friend Stormy—may her soul rest in peace—used to say: “It never hurts to be nice.  It makes it that much more powerful when you have to be nasty.”

Well.  Obviously we’re honoring just the first part, right now.

 _Pgs. 61 – 84 + discussion questions,_ I text back.  And then I go ahead and add Peter Kavinsky to my contacts.

 **Peter:** _Cool thx. have you started the pset_

Ughhh. No, because I’ve been so swamped with reading for my Madness and Gender in Literature class, but thanks for the reminder, Peter.

_No but I took a quick look at it and it doesn’t seem TOO bad_

I barely have time to turn my phone facedown so I can focus before it lights up with another message.

 **Peter:** _wanna work on it together_

My heart does this traitorous leap in my chest.  Immediately, I squash it, because I’m about 90% sure Peter is just using me for homework help.

Still.  This could be a blessing in disguise.  Back when I tutored for NHS, we always talked about how teaching somebody a concept was the best way to make sure you knew it yourself.  And setting up an official p-setting time would hold me accountable, as well.  I’m determined to improve my time-management skills. 

Biting my lip, I hit send before I can second-guess it.

 _Sure._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me continually making liberal use of both movie and book canon as I so please !! reviews are love <33


	3. set a date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today my uterus decided to betray me so this chapter was a SLOG. joke's on it though bc we cranked out 6000 words !!! COME @ ME MOON DAY !!!
> 
>  **further notes:** I'm using the age gap from the books, so Kitty and Lara Jean have a few more years between them than in the movie :)

I meet Peter on the ground floor of Gibbons House.  He’s leaning against the brick all casual-like, typing away on his phone, and looks up when I open the door. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”  I linger in the doorway, waiting for Peter to walk through, but then he puts a hand up to hold it open for _me,_ so it becomes this awkward dance where I drop my arm and end up feeling useless.  “How was—uh, how’s your day?”

“So freaking long,” groans Peter, following me into the lobby and up the stairs.  “I feel like all I do is wake up for practice, go to class, and chug smoothies.”

We round the corner to the study room and the table I’ve already claimed by laying out my laptop and books.  As I pull out my chair to sit down, I catch Peter eyeing me.

“What?”

“Do you not study in your room?”

I do.  But it’s a pretty personal space for me.  If you think about it, in college, your dorm room is your home base, and I’m not sure I want Peter to see it, yet.  Plus I don’t know when Alex is getting back from her classes, and the last thing I need is for _her_ to see me with Peter, because she’ll recognize him and make assumptions that I really do not want to deal with.

“Room access is a privilege for close friends,” I say.

Peter sucks in his cheeks.  “Ouch, okay.  That’s pretty ice-cold, Covey.”

“Besides, here we can use the whiteboard.”  Busying myself with flipping through the textbook, I avoid eye contact.

I don't know why I’m so on guard around Peter.  It’s not that I don’t like him.  He’s a nice guy.  In 8th grade, we had a kid in our science class named Jeffrey Suttleman whom nobody wanted to partner with because he had the worst case of BO, but Peter volunteered to be his partner and suddenly he was no longer a social pariah.  And Peter’s charming; he won Prom King.

I think that must be it.  I know exactly how charming he can be, so my subconscious is inoculating me against it.

“What about you?” asks Peter, right as I reach this conclusion.

“What about me?”  I sound like a parrot.

He smiles down at his textbook.  “How’s _your_ day been?  Or college in general, I guess.”

“It’s been good.  I have friends.”  Somehow it comes out sounding like the exact opposite.  I want to smack myself on the forehead.

“Have you gone to any parties?”

How have there already been parties?  It’s only the second week of school!

“Parties aren’t really my kind of thing.”

Instead of making fun of me, Peter looks thoughtful.  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.  I never saw you at any of the ones in high school.”

I get overtaken by this sudden need to defend myself.  To prove that I am a Fun Girl with myriad interests and not the boring homebody he probably thinks I am.

“I do other stuff.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.  “Oh yeah?  Like what?”

“Reading. Baking, scrapbooking, spending time with my sisters…”

Lacing his fingers together, Peter rests his head against them and leans back in his chair.  “Right, that was on your profile.”

Immediately, my eyes dart around the room.  Hunching my shoulders, I hiss, “Can you _please_ stop mentioning that?” 

He’s doing the crinkly-eye thing.  Like _ha ha, Covey, I’m going to lord this over you for the rest of your life._ “Are you embarrassed?”

I narrow my eyes.  “No, I just don’t want you assuming all of a sudden that you, like, _know_ me just because we connected on some dating app.”

“I _do_ know some things, though.”

“Like what?”

“Like you went with Lucas James last year to prom.”

I cross my arms and lean back, raising an eyebrow.  “Have you been keeping tabs on me?”

Peter scoffs.  “Martinez was salty about it.  I had to hear him complaining during practice, like, ‘I thought she rejected me during homecoming because she was just shy, but really it’s because she likes gay guys.’”

“Lucas isn’t gay.”

Except he is.  In high school he’d been “out but not _out_ -out,” so I was always wary of how I described him to others. I figured he’d enlighten whomever he wanted on his own time.  I wonder how he’s doing now at Sarah Lawrence; I should text him and set up a Skype call.

Frowning, Peter says, “It’s not a bad thing, Covey.  He’s going to tear it up in New York City.”

I can’t even—that isn’t what I meant! 

“Anyways,” continues Peter, as if he’s just closed an argument.  I think I’m starting to see the pre-law side of him.  “You’re acting like we’re total strangers, Covey, and we’re not.  Didn’t we use to hang out in Carolyn Pearce’s treehouse together?  And I remember the stuff with…”

I can tell he thinks about it the exact same time I do, because his face closes up, guilt rolling in a shutter across his eyes.

“My mom,” I finish.

We let the words soak into the air between us.  I think the hardest part about having a dead parent is seeing other people’s reactions to it.  It always becomes this awkward dance of them saying, “I’m sorry,” and me saying, “It’s okay.”  Not that I resent people for trying.  Personal grief sucks, but it’s a familiar beast.  Dealing with someone else’s sadness, though—it’s hard because it’s clumsy. You don’t know how to navigate the terrain, whether your words will set the other person at ease or set them off.  So when people make the effort, I appreciate it.  I really do.

Peter’s watching me carefully.  I get the sense that I could ask him to leave and he would, no questions asked, and maybe it’s because of that that I decide I want him to stay.

“You know, it’s kind of funny.”  I clear my throat, staring at my hands.  Across from me, Peter relaxes slightly, listening.  “I didn’t actually think about her much at graduation.  It was so hot and sticky and there were so many names to get through, I just wanted it all to be over.  But then Move-In Day, seeing all these families in, like, matching T-shirts, or even a mom and daughter waiting on the curb while the dad was like, ‘I’ll bring the car around,’ I got jealous.  Which is dumb, because my dad and my sister were right there.” 

Peter shifts forward.  “It’s not dumb,” he says urgently.  “I was like that, too.  For me, it wasn’t even like… I didn’t actually want my dad there, I just wanted the option.  To know he could have been.”

I remember now.  Peter’s dad walked out on them around freshman year.  It was one of those things I heard through the grapevine, because by then I was no longer part of Gen’s inner circle.  It felt weird to go up and apologize to Peter for it back then, so I do it now.

“I’m sorry.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, a rueful grin. “It’s fine.  It’s not your fault my dad’s an ass.” 

And then we just sit there in silence for a while.  It’s funny how you can have all this history with someone and still not know what to say.  I fiddle with my pen.  Peter runs his fingers along the pages of his textbook so that they make a rippling noise as they fall back into place.

Finally, he exhales.  “Damn, we really went all Oprah on each other, didn’t we?”

I crack a smile.  “We did.”

And just like that, the tension dissipates.  Alternating, we read the problem questions aloud, bouncing ideas off each other.  I write out our thoughts on the whiteboard while Peter copies them into his notebook, pencil scratching against paper, and I can’t help watching him out of the corner of my eye.

In high school, everybody talks about how going off to college changes you.  It pushes and pulls you in new directions.  You grow out of the places and people you used to know, even if you stay close to home, and oftentimes find yourself drifting away from old friends when you realize that maybe all that held you together was crappy cafeteria food, funny French teachers, and 8 hours of class. 

But maybe not every college story is a going-away story.  Maybe some of them can be reunion stories, too.

 

♡

 

In first grade, I begged Mom to let me join Girl Scouts.  I had fun with it for a while, but I hated selling cookies.  Margot, eight years old at the time, had to drag me door to door, and even then she did all the talking while I stood in the back, cowering in my Daisies vest.  I’d only wanted to join because of that vest and the iron-on patches.  After Mom figured that out, she withdrew me from Scouts and we came up with a system: if I did my chores well, we’d go to Michael’s, where I could pick out patches of my own.

In hindsight, probably not the smartest deal I made as a child, especially since the patches took the place of my allowance.  Now, twelve years later, I feel like a Girl Scout again, except with more confidence, and this time I’m peddling bread.

“Challah for sale!  Five dollars a loaf!” shouts Jonah, hands cupped around his mouth.

“All profit goes to charity!” I add, rounding out the call.  Jonah catches my eye and grins.

It’s hard to believe an entire month and a half has passed.  I’ve settled into a routine: KSA meetings on Sundays, 3-4 PM; art classes every Tuesday; baking twice a week at the Brody Jewish Center, with sales shifts as needed.  Before I joined Challah for Hunger, I mainly focused on making cakes and cookies, but I have a newfound appreciation for bread.  I can’t wait to show off for Kitty and Dad during Thanksgiving break.

A whole assortment of twisted and braided loaves lies on our table, packaged neatly.  Strawberry rhubarb, garlic rosemary, cinnamon raisin, birthday cake, and original.  Not-so-secretly, Jonah and I have been nibbling on a loaf of our own.  Technically it’s not allowed, but we always bake extra for the volunteers.

“Anyways, to continue where we left off,” says Jonah, licking his fingers clean and turning to me, “Halloween costumes.”

“Nightcrawler,” I suggest, a little selfishly.  I’ve already decided that I’m dressing up as Jubilee this year.  I found this adorable yellow moto jacket online, plus my hair will be long enough to tease into fun 80’s curls.  I love 80’s fashion.

Jonah shakes his head.  “Too much body paint.”

“Okay, what about Magneto?”

“Are you kidding me? His backstory’s way too sad!  You’re really dead-set on this X-men thing, aren’t you?”

I hold up my hands and shrug.

“All right, well… maybe I could be Cyclops?  His goggles are pretty recognizable.  I bet I could make a cheap version out of tinfoil.”

“Jonah.” I groan, placing a hand over my heart.  “You’re _killing_ me.  Please just let me help you with your costume.”

“Okay, but I have a strict budget of fifty dollars.”

“Fine.”

Turning back to the table, I smooth out the blue linen cloth with my hands.  I like the evening shift because you get to see the sky transition into dusk.  Tonight, the bleed of pink into gray is so pretty I whip out my phone to take a picture, only to spot Peter walking by with two other guys.

A month and a half, and I haven’t quite figured out where we stand.  We don’t sit next to each other during lecture anymore because it turns out Peter knows other guys in the class, and those guys like to sit toward the back.  But we still pset together, and every once in a while, I get a text that isn’t directly related to the homework, like: _free ice cream outside Kellogg_ or _hey covey what’s your favorite TV show? Looking for something to watch on netflix_.  So I guess that makes us friends.

Friends enough for me to shamelessly try to sell him challah.

“Hey, Kavinsky!” 

Peter freezes, looking over his shoulder for the source of the noise until one of his friends elbows him and nods toward me.  They start muttering to each other.  I can’t read their lips from this distance, but it ends with Peter shoving his friend’s shoulder and walking over to our table.

“What’s all this?” he asks.

“Challah for Hunger.” I launch into my prepared speech.  “Half of our profits go to Mazon, a Jewish organization fighting hunger, and the other half goes to the Blue Ridge Area Food Bank here in Charlottesville—”

“Let me try some of that.” Peter cuts me off, nodding toward the bag of bread in my hand.

Quickly, I hide it behind my back.  “This is for volunteers only.”

“How am I supposed to know if I want to buy if I can’t taste-test?”

I’d cross my arms, but that would make the challah vulnerable for snatching.  “That is a very selfish outlook to have, Peter Kavinsky.”

“Come on, Covey.”  Peter clasps his hands together and tilts his head.  “Please.”

I’ve never received a Peter Kavinsky puppy face before.  His hair flops over his forehead and his bottom lip juts out.  My cheeks get hot and I don’t know why.

“Okay! Fine,” I grumble, holding the bag out to him.  “Take your sample.”

Grinning, Peter grabs it.  Boy, he sure likes to win.  Before he tears off a piece to try, he sniffs it.  Seriously! As if he’s never had bread before.

“Did you bake this?” he asks, chewing around a mouthful.

“Not _this_ loaf, specifically, but yes, I help out in the kitchen.”

Nodding, Peter reaches for his phone, sliding it out of his back pocket.  I watch the bite travel down his throat as he swallows.  Boys’ Adam’s apples are so prominent. It’s kind of fascinating, in this foreign-yet-familiar way.

“Covey.”  He’s in my vision again, holding up his phone, logged into Venmo.  “How much for ten loaves?”

My eyes bug out.  “All for yourself?”

Peter shoots me a baffled look.  “No. I live in a suite.”

I didn’t know that.  Come to think of it, I don’t even know where Peter lives.  He always offers to come over to Gibbons to study with me, so I never thought to ask.

“Right.  That’ll be fifty dollars,” I say.  “You can address it to UVAChallah.”

“Done.” Peter shows me the transaction, and Jonah and I help him stuff all his purchases in his bag.  When he finally leaves, I glance over at Jonah and see that he has a faint blush on his cheeks, watching Peter go.

Oh, no.

“Jonah…” I clear my throat awkwardly.  “He’s straight.”

Jonah sighs.  He’s looking at me, now, and shaking his head slightly.  “I know,” he says.  “Oh, man, do I know.”

 

♡

 

 **LJ:** _Hey Peter, where do you live?_

 **Peter:** _fitzhugh_

 **LJ:** _Oh_

I look out my window.  I live at the end of Gibbons closer to Treehouse Drive, but even then, it’s only a five-minute walk to Fitzhugh if you turn right at the corner and walk straight down Alderman.  No wonder Peter’s never put up a fuss about meeting.  I’m surprised that we don’t run into each other more, actually.

 **Peter:** _why_

 **LJ:** _I didn’t know we were so close_

 **Peter:** _yeah_

The conversation flags.  I want to say something else, but I’m not sure what.

 **  
Peter:** _don’t be getting any ideas though covey ;)_

  
I huff.  As _if!_ I type as much and then shove my phone away from me, turning over on my side.

It vibrates.  Shutting my eyes, I breathe slowly, trying to coax myself to sleep.  There’s no need for me to look at the message right now; I can always check in the morning.

My brain won’t relax, though.  Finally, I succumb, rolling onto my stomach and reaching over my pillow to fumble for my phone in the dark.  I can hear Alex snoring, fast-asleep.

 

 **Peter:** _lol :*_

♡

 

“Sadie, I swear to god.”  Leah says this from where she’s sitting on the floor, currently painting her left set of nails a metallic purple. 

“It’s just a trim!” defends Sadie.  She stands in front of the hanging mirror attached to the inside of my closet, a pair of scissors poised just above her forehead, a curl dangling between the blades.

Sadie stress-cuts her hair when she’s nervous, which is a problem because a) Sadie has a bob, and b) she is nervous almost all the time.  Right now, she’s waiting for the grades from her latest math test to appear on Gradescope.

“You’re going to be fine,” says Duncan.  “If it’s any consolation, I guarantee you’re better at math than, like, _anyone_ in this room.”

“Hey.  Speak for yourself, English major,” says Leah, but we all know she’s teasing.

Down the hall, a loud cheer goes up.  Somebody hollers _“Chug it, bitches,”_ so loud we hear it through my closed door.

Leah and I make eye contact.  “Beer pong,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

It’s a Saturday night.  Party night.  Alex asked if I wanted to pregame with her, but I declined.  I don’t mind staying in, especially with good company.  Tonight, my friends and I have decided on board games, and the selection takes up a pile in the middle of my carpet.

“All right, guys, seriously,” nags Duncan.  He’s been trying to get us to vote for the last ten minutes.  “Settlers of Catan, Monopoly, Avalon, Codenames, or Exploding Kittens?”

“Shit,” Leah swears, scrambling to grab a tissue to wipe off the splotch of nail polish she’s just spilled onto her Stitch onesie.

“I vote Avalon.”

“Avalon it is, then,” decides Duncan, shooting me a grateful smile.  “Hey Lara Jean, do you think Alex would mind if I stole some of her La Croix?”

“Probably not.”

“Sweet.  Sadie, can you pass me a pamplemousse one?”

“Just call it grapefruit, you pretentious fuck!” says Sadie, stomping over to the mini-fridge.  “Also, La Croix is disgusting.  Learn to drink a goddamn soda.”

That’s the other thing about Sadie when she’s stressed—she gets very colorful with her language.  It’s kind of funny to me, just because nobody in my family really swears.  Even Chris would tone down her language around me, swapping out _bitch_ for _beotch._ But I guess I’ve gotten used to cursing, now.

From where it’s charging, my phone vibrates.  Instinctively, I start towards it, but freeze when Arya applies pressure around my right wrist and hisses, “Don’t move.”

Arya and I met one day after art class.  I had stayed behind to clear my easel station when she came in carrying an armful of silk screens; we started talking while I helped her put them away.  A fellow Virginian like me, Duncan, and Sadie, Arya’s planning on majoring in Global Development and minoring in art.

“Okay.”  My skin tickles as Arya puts the finishing touches on the _mehndi_ she’s inked on the back of my hand.  “ _Now_ you can go.”

“Thanks, Arya.” I admire the paste drying on my skin and hop over to my desk, pulling my phone off its cord.

 **  
Peter:** _yo are you in your room_

  
My eyebrows knit together. 

_Yeah_

**Peter:** _k cool_

Frowning, I’m about to write out “Why?” when somebody knocks on my door.

“Coming!” Since Sadie’s closest, she gets to it before I do, swinging it open.

And there, standing in my doorway, is Peter Kavinsky.  He’s wearing a plain navy-blue v-neck and jeans.  He looks _good._  

“Uh…” His mouth opens and closes as he observes the scene, my friends scattered throughout the room.  “I didn’t know you had company.” 

My friends’ eyes dart between the two of us. My face prickles from the intense heat of Arya’s stare, which silently communicates: _you are **so** explaining this to us later._

“Peter!” I say, maybe a little _too_ brightly.  “What are you doing here?”

“There’s a party going on.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder.  “I, uh, wanted to see if you wanted to go.  Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Looking around, Peter spots the line of shoes against the wall and takes note, untying his and slipping them off.  His eyes flit from the vintage posters I have over my desk, to the fairy lights hanging above my photo wall, to the covers on my bed, and I wonder how much of what he sees lines up with the ideas that he already has about me.  In an effort to remain calm, I cross to the fridge and grab myself a Yakult. 

As I peel off the foil lid to toss into the trash, Peter comes up next to me.  “What’s that?”

“It’s a yogurt drink from the Korean store.”  I had Dad stock up on them for me when I visited home last weekend.

“Can I try some?”

“Um.”  I take a swig and then hand it to him.  “Sure.”

Peter gulps it down.  His eyes go wide in surprise.  “Hey, that’s some good stuff.”  He tries to hand it back.

“You can finish it.”  I don’t want to touch it now that his mouth’s been on it—it feels too intimate.

“Ahem.” Behind us, Duncan clears his throat.  “Can we play now?”  He has the Avalon box open, the cards ready to go.

“Sorry, yeah!” The rest of us gather around.  I get on my knees, spreading my skirt around me; next to me, Peter plops down, cross-legged.

I stare at him.  “I thought you were going to the party?”

Glancing at his phone, Peter shrugs.  “It’s fine.  Nothing exciting happens until close to midnight, anyways.  It’s cool if I join, right?” he asks, looking around the circle.

Leah elbows me in the side.  Hard.  “Yeah,” she says.  “Of course.”

“Uh…okay,” says Duncan, grabbing one more card for Peter.  He explains the rules: 4 good guys, 2 bad guys.  The good guys have to succeed at three quests to win the game, though they can lose if the Assassin kills Merlin at the end.

“Cool.” Peter nods.  “Thanks…”

“Duncan,” says Duncan.  Peter reaches over me to shake his hand, and I go cross-eyed at the exchange.  This is weird! Am I the only person in this room who thinks it’s weird?

It gets less weird as the night progresses, though.  We play three rounds of Avalon.  Everyone gets really into it—we shout so much that the RA has to knock on my door to ask us to settle down.  I’m a little embarrassed because that puts us on par with the beer pong guys, but then Sadie snorts, and soon all of us have dissolved into laughter.  Around 11 PM, we decide to transition to Monopoly.

Of us Song girls, Kitty has the killer instincts for games like Blokus and chess.  Margot always picks Scrabble.  But Monopoly is my turf: somehow I always get lucky on the dice rolls.  That, and I’m great at making under-the-table deals.

“Damn, Covey, you’re a shark,” says Peter, shaking his head when I buy out Park Place.

Arya switches her attention from sorting through her bills.  “Oh, yeah, Lara Jean’s definitely someone to watch.  You’ve got to be constantly on guard around her.”

Her eyes sparkle.  I can tell she approves of Peter.  All my friends do.  I probably should have seen it coming; I don’t know why I never thought of telling them about him before.  I guess they just occupy such different spaces in my mind.  Old and new.  High school versus college.

But it’s nice, seeing them together like this.  Interacting so easily.  It feels like the most natural thing in the world.

 

♡

 

When Dad and Kitty pick me up for Thanksgiving break, I jump straight into the passenger seat and shout, “Go, go, go!” as Dad peels out of the parking lot.  Rolling the window down, I let the wind nip at my face.  It stings and my eyes water, but I feel alive.

In the backseat, Kitty shoots me a weird look.  “I feel like college made you crazier,” she says.

Turning around, I stick out my tongue.

When we pull into our driveway, I grab my duffel bag from the trunk and take the stairs two at a time to my room, where I flop onto the bed.  It always feels so good to be home.  Home doesn’t smell like anywhere else.  Candles are banned in the dorms and I tried bringing in a diffuser, but the scent still isn’t quite the same.

After I’ve properly basked in my return, I change into my old Adler High t-shirt and go downstairs.  No time for laziness—we have a Thanksgiving meal to prepare.

In the kitchen, I’m pulling out old cookbooks and doing inventory when my dad walks in.

“Glad to have you back, honey,” he teases, kissing the top of my head.  And then he says: “Also, don’t worry about making too many dishes this year.  Trina’s joining us tomorrow and she’ll probably bring over some food, too.”

I frown.  “Trina?”

“Ms. Rothschild,” Dad clarifies.  And then he just _leaves._

I wait until he’s gone, and then I hiss _“Kitty!”_ She comes running in from the living room.

“What’s up?”

Keeping my voice low, I ask, “Is Daddy seeing Ms. Rothschild?”

“Trina,” Kitty corrects.  “And yes.  Sometimes when Daddy’s still at work and I don’t want to take the bus, she picks me up from school."

I blink a few times, processing this information.  Ms. Rothschild, huh.  I guess she _is_ Daddy’s age, and she lives right across the street.

Margot and I have talked about this at length, especially as I got closer to graduation.  We decided that we wouldn’t mind Daddy remarrying.  Especially with both me and Margot gone, Kitty could do with some older female influences in her life.  And I think Daddy deserves a second shot at love.  Doesn’t everybody?

“Do you like her?” I ask Kitty.

Kitty nods.  “Yeah, she’s cool.  But not to the point of trying too hard, you know?”

“Hm.”  We both take a minute to mull this over.  I revise my mental count of how many cans of green beans I need to make casserole.

“Grandma’s going to be here tomorrow,” Kitty says sagely, and we’re both thinking the same thing: Trina will have to earn her approval, too.

 

♡

 

On Thanksgiving morning, I roll out of bed ready for the day, but not before scrolling through my contacts list.

_Happy Thanksgiving! :)_

**Arya:** _Happy Thanksgiving!!_

 **Sadie:** _YEEE HAPPY THANKSGIVING_

 **Duncan:** _* Turkey Emoji *_

 **Leah:** _thanks, happy thanksgiving! :)_

_Happy thanksgiving,_ Peter texts back.

On my way to the stairs, I pass Kitty’s room.  Last night we went to bed pretty late after marathoning Golden Girls, but she told me to wake her up because she wanted to help with the stuffing.

“Kitty?” I knock on her door and push it open.

“Lara Jean!”  She jumps and spins around, dragging the blankets around her waist.  Doing so reveals the dark red stain on the sheets. 

My immediate instinct is: _Kitty’s hurt._   In pieces, the rest of it catches up to me.  My little sister, twelve years old.  Growing up.

Seeing that I’ve put it all together, Kitty lets the blankets fall from around her hips.  “I got my period,” she says glumly.

I go into Big Sister mode.  “Hey, it’s okay.  All we have to do is remove the sheets, soak them and spray them so the stain doesn’t set.  And we’ll need to tell Dad, so that he can take you to the store to buy pads while I’m gone.  Unless you want tampons, but I never got the hang of those, so you’re better off asking Margot—”

“I don’t want tampons!” Kitty says shrilly.  “And I don’t want to tell Dad!”

Halfway through tugging the sheets off the bed, I stop.  “Kitty, you _have_ to tell Dad.  It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.  He knows all this stuff already—it’s what he does for a living.”

“No.”  Kitty’s chin wobbles.  In that moment, she doesn’t look old at all.  She’s still my baby sister.

She reminds me of myself.  The summer before 7th grade, I got my period.  I’d just finished playing outside with Margot and Josh, and when I went into the bathroom I saw the first dark specks on my underwear.  For a few days, I tried to hide it, thinking that if I ignored them they’d disappear.  In the end, nature ran its course, and Margot got mad at me because she had to do the laundry, but she was patient, too.

I try to channel that same patience now.

“Kitty,” I say, as gently as I can.  “What’s really the matter?”

We sit down on the bed.  I don’t do anything more to coax her—Kitty is stubborn as hell, only more so now that she’s become a preteen.

Finally, she says, “I don’t want to go through puberty.  It’s all anyone cares about anymore.  Hannah and Morgan can’t stop obsessing over who’s already got their period or who they think is going to have the biggest boobs, and I hate it! I don’t want to talk about that stuff.  I wish things could just be like they used to.”

“Oh, Kitty.”  I put an arm around her shoulder and rest my cheek against the top of her head.  “They’ll stop obsessing over it soon enough.  It’s just a big deal to them because it’s all so new.  But you don’t have to talk about it, okay?  You don’t have to tell anyone you don’t want to.  At least outside this house.  But Dad needs to know, because you’re his daughter and he loves you.”

Kitty huffs, but it’s less angry than before.  “Okay.  Fine.”

And suddenly I’m grateful for Trina, even though I’ve only met her as our neighbor and not as Dad’s girlfriend before.  Because she will be here to have these talks with Kitty when Margot and I can’t.  With the gratitude, though, comes this fierce burst of sadness.  I miss Mom.

“All right.”  I pull away and stand up.  “Go change your underwear and grab a pad from underneath the sink.  I’m going to wash these, and then you and I are going to start cooking.”

Kitty salutes.  “Whatever you say, Lara Jean.”

♡

 

Later that evening, I spend time in my room alone, going through old photo albums.  Pictures where Margot and I pose next to each other, wearing matching dresses and similar pouts, Mom’s face sandwiched right between ours.  Later ones, where Mom’s changing Kitty’s diaper and Margot and I are just watching, as if she’s a doll. 

Trina did well today.  Friendly with me, nurturing with Kitty, respectful to Grandma.  She ate some of the japchae Grandma brought even though I could tell it wasn’t her favorite.  And Dad likes her a lot.  They have this whole witty banter thing going on.  She likes him, too.  Around Dad, Trina has a laugh that isn’t afraid to be loud.

Over on my vanity, my phone buzzes.  Setting aside my album, I go to pick it up.

 **Peter:** _hey_

_are you busy?_

_No,_ I type.

 **Peter:** _can I call_

  
I hesitate.  I try to avoid phone calls—my voice wobbles when I’m nervous, and I always get self-conscious when I can’t hear someone and have to ask them to repeat themselves.  But just because I’m home doesn’t mean I should automatically slip into my old ways. 

Taking a deep breath, I dial Peter’s number.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”  His voice comes out tense and tired, like a pinched nerve.

And then nothing.  Just us breathing.  Gingerly, I go back to my bed and sit down, wondering if he can hear it squeaking through the phone.

“Peter,” I start, “are you oka—”

“He was supposed to come today.”  The words come in a rush, no spaces between them.  “We set the table and everything.  And I didn’t want to wait, because I _know_ him, but Owen…  Owen just _sat_ there, and then every once in a while he’d get up to check the front door—and _fuck,_ he had no right to stand us up like that!” His breathing is harsh through the speaker, staticky.

“Peter,” I say, again.  I say it because I’m not sure how to say anything else.  “I’m sorry.  That really, really sucks.”

“I’m just so tired.  Like, if you’re going to pick your new family over us every time, just _be_ with them.  Don’t ask us to hold a place for you as if you’re going to come back.”

I lie down, waiting for him to add more, but he doesn’t.

“How are your mom and Owen?”

“My mom’s fine.  Disappointed, but fine.  I think she was expecting it, more or less.  Owen… he’s locked himself in his room playing video games, so I know he’s upset.  Shit, I’m going to have to talk to him about it.  I just hate it because, like—my dad’s still his hero, you know?”

“Yeah, no, that makes sense.  I can see how it would be harder for him.” 

“I don’t know if he’ll ever be over it.  And I don’t know if it makes me a bad person that I _am._   I’ve just been thinking... the more time passes, eventually I’ll have lived more of my life without my dad than _with_ him, and I don’t know whether to be sad or mad.” 

My heart squeezes.  I've never heard Peter upset like this before.  It does something strange to my chest.  “You can be both.” 

“You’re right.”  Peter takes a deep breath.  “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m dumping this on you.  I guess it just felt like—like you’d be someone who understands.”

Oh, Peter.  I do understand.  Sometimes I look at the calendar and think about graduating from college, and it hits me that I’ll be twenty-two, and at that point I’ll have lived exactly the same number of years without my mom as I did with her.  Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder how much I have of her face.  And sometimes I don’t think about her at all, and those moments are the scariest.

“My dad’s seeing someone,” I blurt.

“Oh, shit.”

“No, it’s not—she’s good for him, and for Kitty.  I like her a lot.  I guess I just… today, with my grandma…”  I’m starting to sniffle, now, my train of thought becoming incoherent.  “I’m just scared I’m going to forget her.”

“Hey hey hey, you’re okay,” Peter soothes.  “None of that makes you a bad daughter or a bad sister.  It’s okay.”

I suck in a breath to try to get myself to calm down, but my nose is filled with snot and it sounds horrendous, like I’ve just coughed up a loogey.

Finally, after I’ve composed myself enough, I ask: “Do you think that forgetting and healing are the same thing?”

Peter considers it for a minute.  “No,” he says.  “Forgetting is like—you bury it and think that makes everything okay.  But healing leaves a scar.  It’s how you remember it.  When you can think back on it, and have it hurt, but still be able to move forward—I think that’s when you know it’s for real.”

I smile and wipe my eyes.  Peter Kavinsky might mooch off my psets more than is healthy, but he’s smart where it counts.

My eyelids are starting to feel heavy.  Crying always tires me out, even when it’s just a few tears.  It’s like the salt sucks all my energy through my pores. 

Right when I'm about to make some excuse about needing to go so that I can hang up, Peter says, “You’re a good listener, Lara Jean.”

He’s said my name before, but never like this.  Like it’s a secret meant just for the two of us.

Swallowing, I say, “You are too, Peter Kavinsky.”

And then we just stay like that, listening, until both of us fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wHEW and that concludes that doozy of a chapter. we are now officially at the halfway point !! much love to everyone who's been reading and reviewing - y'all are the best <3 as always, thoughts and/or reactions are much appreciated !! :)


	4. take me home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, squeaking by with the 12:30 AM update again: when will I learn

The glass is so cold I bet my cheek would freeze if I pressed my face against the window, but that doesn’t stop me from cupping my hands around my eyes and peering into the night. 

“Still nothing?” asks Grace, pulling her oversized cardigan closer around her body and standing next to me.  Grace is our KSA president, responsible for organizing everything this weekend.  For our semester retreat, we’ve booked a cabin in the woods.  The majority of our crew set out earlier today because of the two-hour drive, but we appointed one late car for those who still had business on campus.

“Yuri texted that they’re about fifteen minutes away.”

“Okay, cool.  Wanna help me prepare some hot chocolate, then?”

“Sure.”  I follow Grace into the kitchen.  It’s a cozy space, stocked with plenty of cups.  Very rustic.  We got the whole cabin for quite the steal—though that might be because on paper, we listed twelve overnight guests, even though there are currently sixteen of us, and once the last crew arrives we’ll have twenty.

Right when Grace and I finish pouring the hot chocolate and start throwing in marshmallows, David runs in.

“Quick, turn off the lights!”

“What?”

“We’re going to try to scare John and the rest of them.  They’re almost here—come on, everyone’s hiding in the main room.”

Shrugging, Grace and I leave the steaming mugs and flick off the lights in the kitchen.  The rest of the cabin is already dark, people hiding behind the couch, the TV, the curtains.  I squeeze next to Jenny, perched on the staircase.

Lights slice through the blinds.  A car crunches up the gravel.  It’s kind of eerie, to witness an entire room of people go deathly quiet.  Everyone sucks in a breath and holds, anticipating.

Grace sent us all the cabin’s code in the group text, and we listen as somebody punches it into the keypad on the door.  Yuri enters first, sleeping bag slung over her shoulder.  John’s close behind, muttering, “Why is it so dark?” as he steps over the welcome mat.

“ARGHHHHH!” somebody shouts, right as his hand goes for the light switch.  All of us surge out of our hiding places.  Yuri shrieks, swinging out wildly with her sleeping bag—she catches Estelle in the gut, which makes Estelle wrap her in a hug and burst out laughing. To his credit, John doesn’t make a sound, though he does flinch.  David streaks past him to run out the door, which has been left swinging open, letting in the draft from outside. 

“All right, all right, everybody settle down, I don’t want to get written up for breaking something!” Grace calls over the commotion, crossing the room to flick on the lights.

Recovering, John accuses, “What is this, Scream Queens?”

“Just admit you were scared!” hollers Jenny.

“Was not!”

David comes back inside, wheezing.  “Marcus ran all the way back and locked himself in the car.  He won’t come out.”  He doubles over laughing.

I used to think I would only ever belong with my family.  And that hasn’t changed—a part of me will always answer to Daddy, Margot, and Kitty, no matter time or distance.  But looking around the room at everyone teasing each other and caring for each other, in all their tender or funny ways, I think: _I belong with these people, too._

 

♡

 

Our retreat goes off without a hitch.  Somebody gets the fireplace started, so Jenny busts out her ukulele and we start singing cheesy campfire songs.  Grace has a series of group-bonding questions, so we go through those activities to get to know each other better.  It’s the first time I’ve been with all my KSA friends without having to worry about orders of business or the next big event to plan, and I spend a lot of time just watching everyone, soaking it all in.

Later, I’m practicing a braid crown on Grace’s hair when she asks: “Have you thought about running for a position next semester?”

One of the hair bundles slips through my fingers.  “What?”

“Elections are in March.  Still a while away, but… I think you’d make a good historian.” She turns slightly to look at me over her shoulder.

Hm.  That’s currently Jiyeon’s job.  I wonder, if I got the position, if I could convince our executive board to invest in a club scrapbook.  We’ve got the funds for it, plus I have plenty of my own supplies.

“Maybe,” I hedge.

“I even think you’d make a good VP, sophomore year.”

That takes me by surprise.  Back in high school, I never thought of myself as a leader.  I used to run workshops and plan events at Belleview, the old folks’ home, but that was different.  Seniors have lived for so long that they’re pretty forgiving.  To them, everyone’s still young and learning.  Being responsible for people _my_ age, though—that seems like a lot.  What if I’m too ambitious, or not ambitious enough?

“You really think so?”

“Yeah.  People trust you.  And they _like_ you, too, which is always a big plus.  Compassion doesn’t get enough credit in leadership sometimes, but trust me: organization, optimism, and kindness can go a long way.”

Margot would say that competence is key, and to look before you leap.  But maybe there’s a happy medium, where I see the gap, but I can see the other side, too, and what it might take to reach it.

“Okay.  Thanks, Grace, for thinking of me.” 

Sophomore year is still a whole year away—plenty of time to mull things over until then.

Still.  Me, in charge of something.  Suddenly, it doesn’t seem as scary or as unbelievable as it once was.

 

♡

 

“ _God_ is it good to be free.”  Peter stretches his arms, scooping up a handful of snow and flinging it for emphasis.

I keep my hands in my coat pockets.  I can’t wait to be home.  Trina’s supposed to swing by in about an hour, while my dad goes straight from work to retrieve Margot from the airport.  Currently, though, I’m accompanying Peter back to his dorm because I lent him one of my lucky pens, which he ended up forgetting the day of our final anyways.

My cheeks are rosy from the cold and from climbing three flights of stairs when we get to his suite.  Peter doesn’t bother with sticking his key in the lock, just pushes it open.

“Mom.” He stops short so quickly I almost slam into his back.  “I didn’t know you were here yet.”

“I texted you,” says Mrs. Kavinsky.  “I didn’t want to call because I wasn’t sure exactly when you’d be done with your test.”

Peeling my scarf away from my face, I peek out from behind Peter.  “Hi, Mrs. Kavinsky,” I greet, trying to be polite.

“Oh.” She looks surprised.

“Mom, you remember Lara Jean.” Peter steps aside, using my shoulders to guide me in front of him.  I glare—just because I’m small doesn’t mean he can move me around like a ragdoll.

Mrs. Kavinsky studies me.  Her eyes have the look of someone reaching for a face and failing to place it.

“Covey, right?” she eventually guesses.  “You had the sisters.”

I smile at her.  “Yes, that’s me.”   

“I’m assuming you’re also going home for the break?”

“Yep.  My, uh—” I flounder for a second, unsure what to call Trina.  She’s not my stepmom yet, but _‘family friend’_ just sounds weird.  “—Dad’s girlfriend is coming to get me in an hour or so.”

Mrs. Kavinsky purses her lips.  “Why don’t we give you a ride?”

Behind me, Peter stiffens.

“It’s okay,” I say quickly.  “You don’t need to do that, it’s really just a quick fifteen-minute drive.” 

“It’s no trouble.  We’re all going the same direction, and it would save someone else the extra trip.  Peter, why don’t you go help Lara Jean grab her stuff.  I’ll meet you all in the parking lot.”

“But Mom, I’ve still got to carry my bag—”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Kavinsky waves a hand.  “Your suitemates have already agreed to help.  Go.”

An extremely tall blonde guy pops his head into the room.  “Yeah, don’t worry about it.  We got this, Kavinsky.”

I turn to Peter, who looks as bewildered as I feel.  Seriously.  Did they cluster this entire suite by height?

“Well.” I clear my throat.  “Follow me, then.”

 

♡

 

The Kavinskys’ car smells like crushed pine.  I distract myself with this fact as I sit in the backseat, enduring what is shaping up to be my most awkward carpooling experience yet.

“So, Lara Jean, what are you majoring in?”

Why do parents always ask that? I know it’s supposed to be a friendly getting-to-know-you question, but right now it sounds almost menacing.  I feel like I’m being screened.

“Um, well, I haven’t really decided yet, because I’m interested in so many things.”  That’s a lie.  I know, for instance, that I will absolutely run crying if I have to deal with another calculus problem.  But “Not Math,” doesn’t seem like an acceptable answer.

“Lara Jean’s really smart,” Peter says.  “She helped me with all my business class psets.”

We make eye contact in the rearview mirror.  He’s trying to save me.  Thank God.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me; usually I’m great with parents.  In my head, I start planning a batch of apology-slash-thank-you cookies for Peter’s mom.  Fruitcake cookies, maybe, with some cinnamon applesauce ones thrown in.

We get to my neighborhood and I can’t clamber out of the car fast enough.  “Thank you!” I say.  And then I say it again, just for emphasis.  I don’t dare look back until I’m inside my house, and by then Peter and his mom are long gone. 

 

♡

 

For Christmas, I get a brand-new KitchenAid mixer, mint green.  I give Kitty this charm bracelet that she pretends she’s too old for but which I can tell she secretly likes.  Margot gets a five-pound GRE prep book as a partially serious, partially gag gift from Daddy, but then we follow it up with a new lens for her camera.  For Daddy, it’s a plush new bathrobe, a six-piece Meyer Lemon hand soap and lotion set from Williams-Sonoma, and a gift card so he and Trina can go out to a fancy dinner.

On New Year’s Eve, I’m hard at work using my fancy mixer when I get a text from Peter:

_party at Steve Bledell’s house tonight  
I can pick you up if you need a ride_

I tug my bottom lip between my teeth, debating.  On the one hand, not my scene.  But probably lots of people from high school will be there, and I’m pretty curious to see how everyone’s changed.  I’ll need back-up, though, that’s for sure.

I text Lucas.

_Are you going to be at Steve’s?_

**Lucas:** _hells yeah_

 _  
_ That settles it.  Raising my voice, I call, “Hey Dad, can I go to a party tonight?”

“Are you driving?”

“No, I have a ride!”

“Okay, but text me when you get there safely, and I want you back by one!” I hear the door to his study close again.

Margot swipes some of my cookie dough on her way to the refrigerator.  “Whose party?”

“Steve Bledell.”  He’s known for having a mansion; I’ve always wondered what it looks like inside.

“And who’s driving you?”

“Peter Kavinsky.”

“Lacrosse Peter?”

“Yes.” I shoot her a look.  “Though I don’t see what _that_ has to do with anything.”

“Hm.” We let the matter drop, and I shoo her away so I can get started on lining my cookie trays.

 

♡

 

Peter arrives at my front door at 8:30 PM, and by “arrives” I mean he opens the door to both Margot and Daddy sizing him up.  When I catch sight of the scene, I rush down the stairs as fast as I can, squeezing between them. 

“We’ll be back by one,” I say, glaring at Margot especially.  Seriously, they’re acting like Peter’s my boyfriend or something.  Taking Peter’s arm, I drag him out the door, though he somehow manages to twist in my grip and wave, “Bye, Dr. Covey!”

At the curb, I stop, confused.  “Where’s your car?”

Peter gives me the side-eye.  “It’s this one,” he says, raising his keys for emphasis, and the black Audi in front of us flashes its lights.  This is not the brown van that his mom drove us home in.

“Here,” I say, handing him a plate wrapped in tinfoil.

Peter takes it, testing its weight.  “What’s this?”

“They’re cookies for your mom.”  I open the passenger-side door and slide in, marveling at the leather seats.  I’ve never paid much attention to cars, but even I can tell that this is a nice one.  Meanwhile, Peter walks around to the driver’s seat.  He’s wearing a forest-green sweater that brings out the golden specks in his eyes.  I almost tell him that, but the moment passes by the time he’s buckled himself in.

He doesn’t start the car immediately, opting to peel back the tinfoil slightly.

“Peter,” I reiterate.  “They’re for your _mom._ ”

He scowls.  “Fine.”  Twisting around to put the tray on the floor behind his seat, I hear him mutter something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘What’s a guy gotta do to get you to bake him a batch of cookies?’” Peter repeats.

“You want me to make you cookies?”

“I remember our class bake sales, Covey,” Peter says. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

I laugh.  “I knew this friendship was too good to be true.  There had to be a catch.”

The car starts moving.  Peter snorts.  “Please. _I’m_ the catch.”

We get to the end of the block when he says, very seriously, “I need you to make a promise.”

I sit up straighter.  “What promise?”

“This car is a strict no-judgment zone,” Peter says, and then he turns on his music, and it’s Taylor Swift, and I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

 

♡

 

Steve Bledell’s mansion is every bit as big as the rumors made them out to be.  Peter patiently waits for me to finish ogling the driveway and the grounds in their entirety before he rings the doorbell.

“Hey!” We’re greeted by Gabe Rivera, one of Peter’s buddies from the lacrosse team.  “Lara Jean!” He wraps me up in a hug, too, and I try to disguise my squeak of surprise.  “How’s UVA?”

“It’s great,” I say, stepping back to adjust my ponytail.  Peter’s watching me with a strange look in his eyes, almost like he’s proud.

“Come on, come on.”  Gabe’s attention is back on Peter, now.  “People have been asking after you.”

Trailing behind them, I walk through the foyer.

Once the space opens up, the chatter is louder.  People are everywhere: some of them sitting on the couch and chatting, clutching red Solo cups; others are playing pool, poker, beer pong.  I search the crowd for Lucas but don’t spot him.  Times like these, I really miss Chris, but she’s still living it up in Costa Rica.  Over in the corner, I spy Emily Nussbaum, Gen’s best friend, but no Gen.

A tiny part of me is relieved.

“Yo, Lara Jean.” Peter checks up on me.  “I’m going to go say hi to some of the guys—will you be okay?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be over at the couches.  By the… massive fish tank.”  That must be a nightmare to clean.

We go our separate ways.  I bump into a few people from classes I’ve had in the past: Pammy Subkoff, Marshawn Hopkins.  There’s Cary, who also goes to UVA, but he plays golf and we haven’t taken any of the same classes, so that conversation tapers off pretty quickly.

I miss my college friends.

I’m just about to text Leah when a pair of hands covers my eyes.  “Hey there, stranger,” someone says.

“Lucas!” I yelp, spinning around and throwing my arms around his neck.  He squeezes me back, then holds up his right hand so I can twirl.

“Looking stylish as always.  I love the skirt.”

“Thanks,” I beam.  I drag him over to the couches, flopping down against the cushions.  “All right, tell me everything.  Is New York everything you thought it would be?”

“That and more.” Lucas leans forward to pour himself some beer.  He offers me a cup; I take it.

“Lucas.” I poke his arm.  There’s a slyness to his face, something he isn’t telling me.  “Did you get a boyfriend?”

“Not a boyfriend.  At least, not _yet,_ but…” He ducks his head, smiling.

“Lucas!” I squeal.  “You have to show me a picture.”

“Okay, later,” he promises.  “But I wanna talk about you right now.  What’s up with you and Kavinsky?”

My cheeks redden.  “What do you mean what’s up with us?”   

“People are saying you came here together.”

“Well, yeah.  Because we’re _friends._ ”

Lucas raises an eyebrow.  “Since when?”

“Well, um…” Fidgeting, I play with the end of one of the pillows.  “It kind of started because we matched on Tinder.”

Lucas looks impressed.  “So you all hooked up?”

“Lucas! No.”

“Do you know if he’s seeing anyone else?”

“I don’t know.” I blink.  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

I’m imagining it now, though.  A string of different girls entering Peter’s room.  Meeting him after lacrosse practice, laughing with him at dinner.  Something about it makes my stomach turn.

“Well.” Lucas sips his drink.  “College is a different ballgame, so I wouldn’t be surprised.  Gen had the seal on him, but then they broke up, and a guy like Kavinsky?  He’s bound to have had offers.”

After that, we move on to talking about Broadway shows and spring break plans.  Lucas mentions wanting a haircut, so we debate the subtleties and merits of a fade versus an undercut, until somebody starts a countdown and then we’re all chanting the seconds until midnight.

At 12:00 AM, Lucas and I peck each other on the cheek.  I don’t dare look for Peter.

He finds me later, though, dozing against Lucas’s shoulder on the couch.  I think all the carbonation from the beer might have made me sleepy.

“Come on, Covey,” he says, tugging me to my feet.  “Get your jacket; I’ll bring the car around.”

I start after him to the coat room, but Lucas takes my hand.

“Lara Jean,” he murmurs, patting me gently.  “Take care of yourself, okay?  You all came here together, and you’re leaving here together, too.  If I were you, I’d be asking what it means.”

 

♡

 

In the car, Peter asks me if I had fun and I say yes.  I’m back to being wide awake, Lucas’s words ringing in my head: _“You all came here together, and you’re leaving here together, too.  If I were you, I’d be asking what it means.”_

When we get on the highway, I ask, “Do you miss being in a relationship?”

If Peter’s surprised by my question, he doesn’t let it show.  “Yes and no.  Like yeah, I miss the guaranteed company, but… I feel like I did a lot of growing this past semester, all on my own.

“I mean, that’s part of why Gen and I broke up—we were already growing in different directions, even before school started.  That’s not the only reason, but.  It was definitely part of it.”

I didn’t expect him to open up about Gen.  I have a million and one other questions, now, but I only ask the one:

“Did you love her?”

Peter’s quiet.  “Yeah.  I don’t think— we wouldn’t have stuck together so long if we didn’t.”

Four years.  It seems like an entire lifetime.  I can’t fathom holding on to a person for that long.  Having them hold me in return.

“When did you first say it?”

“Say what?”

“Say ‘I love you.’”

Peter looks unsettled.  “I don’t remember.  It was a long time ago.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are.  I can tell because your ears are red.”

Peter’s jaw clenches.  Through gritted teeth, he confesses: “It was the first time we had sex, okay?”

“Oh, my god.” 

“Hey.”  He’s glaring at me now.  “When you got into this car, you agreed to a no-judgment zone!”

“Everybody always says that, but no one really _means_ it,” I argue.  “Even if I don’t judge out loud, I’m still going to have an opinion in my head.”

“God, you are impossible.  Judgey Lara Jean.  There’s a career for you.”

“Maybe I will!  See you in court, Peter Kavinsky.”

Peter shakes his head, but I see him crack a smile.

After a beat, I venture: “I think when I say ‘I love you,’ it’ll be over something really small.  Like, they’ve just done the laundry, or killed a bug.”

“Killing a bug is small?” Peter asks.  “That’s a life you’ve taken.”

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t swat a mosquito, given the chance.”

“Oh, no, definitely.  Mosquitoes are nasty little fuckers.”

 _“Anyways,”_ I say, to redirect back to my musings on love. “Point is, it’s not going to be some heat-of-the-moment, physical thing.  It’ll be a culmination.  An epiphany.”

“Okay, sure, let me know how that works out for you.”

I don’t like the way he says it, as if he knows something that I don’t.

“Just because you’ve been in a relationship and I haven’t doesn’t automatically make you the expert on love,” I tell him.

Peter’s busy changing lanes, so he can’t look at me, but I see his eyebrows fly up in surprise.  “I didn’t say that.”

“But you implied it.”

“I mean, okay, yeah.  Maybe I thought it, just a little.  You’ve got to admit your outlook is a bit naïve.”

“Because I don’t have experience?  This isn’t an internship, Peter.  Speaking of which, I hate when internships do that, too.  Like, of course I don’t know everything yet—that’s why I’m trying out for the internship!  But that doesn’t discount any of the skills or opinions I _do_ have.  Obviously if someone asked me out, then I’d know things for _sure,_ but until then, I’m still allowed to talk about what I like or dislike based on what I’ve seen or read, and that shouldn’t make me dumb or _naïve.”_

“Okay, okay.”  Peter’s eyes are wide.  “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about this stuff.  I take it back.”

“Good.”  I didn’t know I had that rant pent up inside me, but it’s kind of liberating to have out in the open.  To distract myself from the silence, I stare out the window, counting the houses we pass by.

To my left, Peter chuckles.

I look back at him.  “What?”

“Did we just have our first fight?”

Guiltily, I frown at the dashboard.  “It wasn’t a fight… More like a minor disagreement.”

“All right.”  Peter chuckles again.

We get to my house, where Peter pulls up right alongside the curb.  I’ve unbuckled my seatbelt and am about to leave when he puts a hand out and says, “Wait.”

I ease back into the passenger seat.  “What?”

“All this talk about relationships… I gotta ask, Covey, does that mean you’re looking for one?”

He’s staring at me in a way that makes it seem like the console between us has evaporated, like we’re not in a car but some other quiet, dark place, sequestered away from the world.  The intensity of it makes my knees weak, even though I’m already sitting.

I don’t know what I want from him.  I don’t know what he wants from me.

I find my voice.  “Maybe,” I say, willing it not to tremble.  “If the timing were right.”  And then I thank him and get out of his car and walk back into my house, where I peek through the windows, heart hammering as the lights of his Audi pull away.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, let me know your thoughts, and much love to everyone who's expressed their enjoyment so far <3


	5. netflix and (no) chill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternatively titled "Thirst, the Musical," with its sequel: "Trainwreck"

Winter break leaves me with two resolutions.

> 1: Talk to Alex more, because even though we’ve settled into our separate friend groups, she’s still my roommate, and we only have one more semester together. 
> 
> 2: Figure out what, exactly, is happening between me and Peter.

The first is easy enough.  I get back to the dorms before Alex does, which puts me in the perfect position to help her when she eventually arrives, wheeling her suitcase through the door.

“How was your break?” I ask.

Alex doesn’t bother unpacking, just groans and collapses onto her chair.  “Too long.”

“Did something happen?”

“Nothing major.  Just that my brother’s graduating this year, and instead of heading off to grad school like the original plan, he’s decided that he’d rather work as somebody’s production assistant in Hollywood for a year.  So, you can guess how well _that_ went over with my parents.”

“Yikes.”  I can’t imagine being caught in the crossfire between Margot and Dad, if they were ever to have a major fight.  I’m not even sure whose side I would take.

“Yeah.” Alex makes a face.  “Obviously, I’m happy that my brother wants to pursue his dreams, but he could have been less of a dumbass about it.  But I guess that’s why my parents had me—to be the practical one.”

“That’s middle child erasure,” I joke, but internally I’m gulping.  If, in our family, Margot’s the practical one, and Kitty’s the wily one, then what does that leave me as?  The dreamer?

“Right, I forgot that you’re a middle child,” says Alex.  She considers.  “Maybe you’ll get lucky and just be able to do whatever the hell you want.”

 

♡

The second resolution is harder to achieve, because Peter starts going missing as lacrosse’s official game season ramps up.  The new semester leaves me with an awkward gap in our interactions that I hadn’t anticipated.  Who knew we could both be so _busy?_   Without our regularly scheduled pset sessions, I’m relegated to getting my doses of Peter through the occasional run-in at the dining hall, or through blurry Snapchats and our ongoing texts.

 

**Peter:** _HOW have you never seen fight club ?!?_

**Me:** _well, YOU’VE never seen a John Hughes movie!_

**Peter:** _duh because those are like the 60s_

**Me:** _Now you’re just being dumb on purpose. THEY WERE THE 80s_

**Peter:** _fight club’s on Netflix. I’m going to watch it right now_

**Me:** _Okay, have fun with that_

**Peter:** _…Covey_

_That was me inviting you to join_

I blink, rolling off my back and sitting straight up on my bed.  Oh.  _Oh._

**Me:** _Where are we watching it?_

**Peter:** _in my room_

_unless you want to go somewhere else?_

**Me:** _No that’s fine!_

_Give me like 20 min – finishing an essay_

**Peter:** _ya no rush_

As soon as I read his text, I jump off my bed and wrench open my drawers, firing off a message to Arya at the same time.

 

**Me:** _HELP_

**Arya:** _?!!! What’s going on?_

**Me:** _Peter invited me over to watch a movie_

_I don’t know… what that means_

**Arya:** _omg okay so 1 st question: where_

_2: is it a movie he’s already seen?_

_3: what are you currently wearing?_

**Me:** _His room??_

_Yeah the movie’s Fight Club_

_I’m wearing a sweatshirt but idk how that’s relevant_

**Arya:** _yeah ok so that’s a netflix and chill set-up if I’ve ever heard of one, who tf actually watches fight club and enjoys it_

**Me:** _WE’RE NOT LIKE THAT_

**Arya:** _do you WANNA be though is the question_

_Listen ok you do you, like Peter’s not a douche I highly doubt he’s gonna try anything_

_But like, if you wanna have all your bases covered… wear a cute bra and change your shirt please_

**Me:** _Thank you_

**Arya:** _I s2g if I don’t get the play by play of this tomorrow we’re not friends anymore_

I toss my phone back onto my mattress, heart beating fast.  Fifteen minutes left.  Trying not to panic, I switch into my nicest bra—scalloped, with black lace—and change into a fuzzy pink sweater.  With my jeans and boots, the outfit looks polished enough: put-together, but not to the point of trying too hard.  I don’t have time to do anything nice with my hair except yank a brush through it before I’m out the door, grabbing my coat and a bag of candied popcorn on the way.

When I get to Fitzhugh, I text Peter.  Within a minute, he’s there to let me in, breath fogging up the air as he says, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Here, come in, it’s cold.”  Peter scrubs a hand through his hair and steps aside, waving me through.  Holding the popcorn close to my chest, I follow him upstairs.  In the common room, his suitemates are playing cards—I recognize the tall blonde boy from before winter break, but I realize I don’t know anyone’s names.

“Lara Jean, this is Ty, Nate, Jarrod,” introduces Peter.  Each of them nods and gives me a quick wave.  Awkwardly, I wave back, and then we’re at Peter’s room.

Last time I was here, I didn’t get this far because his mom turned us around again.  The door decorations are plain enough: simple placards with _Peter_  | _Charlottesville, VA_ and _Rex_  | _Chantilly, VA_ printed on them.  Peter pushes open the door, and I try not to be too obvious about my staring, but I’m already committing everything to memory. 

It’s cleaner than I thought it would be.  There’s a Cavaliers flag on Peter’s wall and a Green Day poster.  His bedsheets are a pale, striped blue, which somehow seems so quaint and unexpected that I have to turn sideways to disguise my laugh as a cough.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, totally fine.” Covering my mouth with my hand, I hold out the popcorn.  “Here.  They’re not cookies, and they aren’t homemade, but a snack’s a snack.”

“Thanks.”  Peter takes them, smiling.  He’s looking at me so warmly it makes my chest tight.

“What?”

“You look pretty with your hair down.”

“Oh.” My fingers go to the ends of my hair, playing with them.  “Thank you.”

“So I was thinking we could just sit on the bed,” continues Peter, turning to gesture to where his laptop is already open to Netflix.

“Right.  The bed.”  I try not to stutter.  Crossing to it, I sit down and start to unlace my boots. 

Peter picks up his laptop, balancing it on his arm as he asks, “Should we watch with the lights on or off?”

“We can turn the lights off.”

Despite my better intentions, I get caught up in watching Peter go for the lights.  His sweatpants sit low on his hips, and the outline of his shoulders is strong underneath his tee.  I look away, hoping the darkness disguises my blush. I shouldn’t have worn this stupid bra.  It’s all I can think about, now.  _Get thee to a nunnery, Lara Jean._ Peter’s the totally innocent party—it turns out _I’m_ the one who can’t stop thinking…things.

The bed creaks when Peter climbs back on, setting the laptop in front of us.  I’ve drawn my knees up to my chest, praying that the applied pressure will ease the rapid beating of my heart.  There’s a small gap between us, but it feels like it’s a mile wide.

I miss the first five minutes of the movie because I’m too preoccupied with Peter’s every gesture.  At one point, I think he’s going for my hand, and I jerk away, but it turns out he’s only reaching for the popcorn.  He shoots me a hurt look: “Damn, Covey, I thought the whole point was to share.”

Somehow that breaks the tension; I think I’m at my best around Peter when we’re slightly teasing.  After that, I get sucked into the movie, to the point where Peter grouches at me to stop asking so many questions.  When we get to his favorite parts, he shushes me so that he can quote along to them.  It’s extremely dorky, and I tell him as much.  In retaliation, Peter throws a piece of popcorn at me.  I reach over and tweak his nose, then quickly grab a pillow to block him when he tries to tickle me. 

“First rule of Fight Club: no fighting!”

“That’s not even the right quote!” protests Peter.

“Creative reinterpretation,” I justify.

“You’re making fun of my favorite movie!”

“I’m sorry!” I peek out from behind the pillow.  “If I stop, do you promise not to tickle me?”

Peter goes stone-faced.  “I promise.”

“I’m dead serious, Peter.”

“So am I, Lara Jean.”

“Okay.” I put down the pillow.

The moment I do, Peter goes for my sides.  Shrieking, I push him back, which topples us over on his bed, me on top.

“Um.” Peter blinks up at me.  Up close, his face is more beautiful than handsome, his eyelashes dark and long.  He still has a hand on my hip, steadying me.  I think if I leaned down right now, I could do it, and it wouldn’t be scary or weird.  It’d be right.

The thought fractures just as quickly as it arrived.  Peter’s phone buzzes, its light blinding, and I ease up and away as Peter mutters “Shit,” and goes for it.

“Who is it?” My voice doesn’t come out sounding like my own.

Peter sits up.  “Nothing, just my roommate saying he’ll be back late.” He types back a response, then tosses it aside.  “It’s, uh, 8:30 now.  You had that essay you were working on, right?”

I almost blurt, “What essay?” before I remember my minor fib from earlier.  “Uh, yeah, but it’s pretty much done.”

“Okay, cool.” Peter scratches the back of his head.  “We could…watch another movie, then?  Your pick this time.  Maybe one of the John Hughes ones you were talking about, like Sixteen Candles or whatever.”

“Peter.” I bite back a smile.  “Did you google John Hughes movies?”

Scowling, Peter says, “Give me a little credit, Covey.”

“All right.” I wiggle my fingers at him.  “Hand over your laptop.”

We start the movie, only this time with less of a barrier between us.  As it progresses, we get closer and closer, until eventually the entire length of our arms press against each other.  It would be so easy to lean my head against Peter’s shoulder, but I don’t, because I’m back to doubting myself again.  Maybe Arya was wrong, and a movie really is just a movie.  And before I know it, it’s over.

“You know,” says Peter, when the music finally fades out, “rom-coms kind of stress me out.”

Suddenly, I’m extremely interested in the screen in front of me, even though the credits have rolled and it’s just black.  “Why’s that?”

“Because.  There’s always so much miscommunication.  Like when two people like each other, _really,_ how hard is it for them to just tell each other?”

“I don’t know.” I feel like there’s a tiny hole at the top of my head and I’m forcing all my words out through that, and it’s making me dizzy, because—say Peter means what I think he means.  But if he doesn’t?  Then I’ll have lost a friend.  I don’t think I could stomach that.  I’ve gained so many this year; it would kill me to lose him.  I’d deal with the rest of it—I’d swallow all the butterflies and the longing—if it meant I could keep him close.

“Sometimes people are dumb,” I say, weakly.

We sit there, our arms still pressed against each other’s.  Every second seems to last an hour.

“Lara Jean—” Peter’s voice is low and gravelly, as if he hasn’t used it in a year.  I turn toward him and suddenly we’re nose to nose, his breath warm against my cheek.  Reaching out, my hand touches his sleeve, then the cloth around his bicep.  _Thumpthumpthump._ My heart’s beating like a rabbit’s, so fast it could spring out of my chest and run down the hall.  Peter swallows, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and all my earlier thoughts evaporate.  Everything except this: _if he doesn’t kiss me right now, I will literally shrivel up and die._

“I’m going to—” His throat bobs.  Slowly, carefully, he reaches up, thumb brushing over my cheek before tucking a piece of hair behind my ear, and I’m already closing my eyes and leaning forward, trusting him to meet me, when the doorknob turns.

We spring apart like two repellant magnets.  Peter jerks back so hard his elbow hits the wall; immediately he doubles over, hissing in pain.  Meanwhile, I’ve all but toppled off the bed, making a last-ditch effort to grab the sheets as I fall.  Thank God Peter’s bed isn’t lofted—I land on my feet, albeit a little off-balance.

“Oh, shit,” says Peter’s roommate— _Rex,_ my mind supplies.  He tries to backpedal, but the damage is done.

“It’s okay, I was just leaving!” I can’t find my boot.  _Where is my other boot?!_

“Covey.”  Peter’s managed to slide off his bed and locate it.  “Here.”

“Thanks.” I take it from him and slip it back on.  I can’t look at his face or I’ll combust. 

Resisting the urge to pat down my hair—because that will make us appear guiltier than we are—I turn to Rex and say, in the calmest voice I can muster: “It was nice meeting you, Rex.”  Then I walk out of Peter’s room, casual-as-you-please, through the common room, where Ty’s doing his homework.  I nod at him in acknowledgment.  _Nothing to see here._

As soon as I reach the door, I close it behind me, and then I sprint down the hall.

 

♡

 

The Kiss That Wasn’t, or “Moviegate,” as Sadie and Duncan start calling it, lives in infamy for the next week, during which Peter and I discuss everything _but_ movies and his roommate, Rex.  In fact, I’ve almost convinced myself that the whole ordeal was just a hallucination, when I get a text from Peter on Saturday:

 

**Peter:** _hey there’s a party at KA tonight_

_it’d mean a lot to me if you came_

 

♡

 

An entire semester of college, and I have yet to attend a frat party.  Now, I’m desperately wishing I had gone to at least one before, because I feel woefully unprepared.  Sadie doesn’t like parties because the crowds make her anxious. Duncan is opposed to frats on principle, and both Arya and Leah are busy.  A few of the KSA guys like to go hard, but they usually go to Sigma Nu or the multiculturals, and I heard that it’s harder to get into a frat party with a group of guys, anyways. 

So there I am, trying to do my eyeliner, when Alex enters our room.

“Alex!”  I whirl around so quickly that I nearly stab my eye.

“Hey.” She looks closer at me.  “You okay?  You look like you’re on the verge of a freakout.”

Oh, no.  I am 100% in control.  That’s me: Lara Jean Song Not-Spiraling Covey.

Something in my face must have _HELP_ stamped all over it, because Alex marches over and grabs the eyeliner pen out of my hand.

“Sit,” she commands.  “And tell me what’s going on.”

So I sit, and I tell her everything.  All the way back from matching with Peter, to the psetting, to winter break, to The Kiss That Wasn’t.  When I finish, Alex leans back, blinking.

“So let me get this straight: you got invited as his pledge plus-one to a KA party.”

“Yes?”

“Oh, my god.  This is ThirstCon 1.  What are you going to wear?”

“Uh…” I gesture to the dress I’ve laid out on my bed.

Alex takes one look at it and immediately blanches.  “Lara Jean, _no._   Absolutely no part of that outfit screams ‘please make out with me against a wall.’  This is what you’d wear if you were, like, painting the canvas that needed to _go_ on the wall.  It’s a smock.  Granted, a _cute_ smock, but still.” She shudders.  “I cannot in good conscience let you go to a party wearing that.”

“Well, then, what do you propose?” I ask, hands on my hips.

♡

 

Ten minutes later, I’m wearing a choker, a pair of black jeans, and a deep blue crop top from Alex’s closet.

“There,” says Alex, beaming at our reflections in the mirror.  “You look hot.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Lara Jean, please just trust me.  Here, I’ll help you with your eyeliner, too.”  She guides me back to my desk, instructing me to close my eyes.  The pen is cool against my eyelids, and Alex maneuvers with a practiced hand.

“See?” she says as she works. “I told you this Tinder stuff would work out.  Turns out I inadvertently set you up with your childhood sweetheart.”

“We’re not sweethearts,” I correct.  That’s more Peter and Gen.

“Old flames, then,” Alex amends.  “Whatever it is, consider that spark reignited.” She finishes my makeup with a flourish.  “Okay, look.”

I blink at myself in the mirror.  The winged makeup is a bit more dramatic than I’m used to, but combined with the simplicity of the shirt, it works. 

“Wow.  Thanks, Alex.”

“No problem.” She beams.  “Okay, I’ll get changed too, and then we can dip to your pregame.”

I clear my throat.  “I wasn’t really… planning on pregaming.”

Alex gapes at me.  “You were going to go sober?”

I shrug.  “I figured there’d be drinks there?”

“Ughhh, no, it’s all shitty beer or some punch that contains who knows what.  All right, change of plans.  We’re going to pregame here, where you’re going to get properly buzzed, and I’ll be your monitor-slash-guardian-angel for the night, at least until Peter Charming comes to whisk you off your feet.”

“Alex, like half of that sentence made sense, and I’m not even drunk yet.”

“Excuses.” Alex has disappeared back into her closet; when she emerges, it’s with a handle of tequila. 

My eyes bug out.  “How long have you had that?”

“Don’t worry about it.  Listen, we’re not in any rush, so I’m about to make you some bomb-ass mixed drinks.  Okay?”

Unsure of what I’ve gotten myself into, I swallow.  “Okay.”

♡

 

After three drinks, I’m feeling appropriately flushed.  Alex has put on her “Hype” playlist and we’re dancing around the room, laughing and shimmying like it’s nobody’s business. 

 _“God_ am I so glad one of us is getting laid tonight,” she says as we collapse backwards onto my bed, giggling.

I have a brief moment of sobriety.  “I’m not going to have sex with Peter.  Sex is for when I’m in love.  And I’m not in love with him.”

Alex shifts slightly to look me in the eyes.  “But you like him.”

“Yes.”  It feels good to say it out loud, like a weight has been lifted.  “I like him a lot.  He makes me feel… comfortable.  And warm.”

Alex snorts.  “So like alcohol, then.”

“Alex!” I swat at her shoulder.  “No.  Comfortable wasn’t the right word.  It’s more like… he makes me feel braver.  Like, there’s still so much I don’t know, but I feel like it doesn’t matter when I’m with him.”

“Okay.” Tugging me by the wrists, Alex pulls me into a sitting position, placing her hands on either side of my face.  “Listen, Lara Jean, I want you to have fun tonight.  But if, at any point, it gets to be too much, just give me a signal and we’ll leave, no questions asked.  Okay?”      

“Okay.” I giggle.  “Hey Alex, have I told you that you’re the best?”

She pinches my cheek.  “You’re adorable.  And also sufficiently buzzed.  Let’s go.”

“Wait!” I jerk back toward the table.  “Let me finish this cup.”

“All right, fine, but chug some of this water, too.”  She waits for me to finish, then hooks her arm through mine.  With her left hand, she throws a Greek symbol that I’m pretty sure is bogus.

“Brothers of Kappa Alpha, here we come!”

 

♡

 

By the grace of God, or maybe just Google Maps, we get to Kappa Alpha.  The music pounds so loudly I can feel it in my chest, even from outside.  At the door, a brown-haired guy with glasses and a jacket emblazoned with KA across the front stops us, asking for our student IDs.

After we show them, he asks, “Who are you here for?”

I wrinkle my nose at the weird phrasing, but I answer.  “Peter.  Peter Kavinsky.”

Brown-hair flips through the pages on his clipboard.  “Oh, here you are,” he says, thumb falling on the last line of the last page, where I can vaguely see my name scrawled, next to an illegible number and _Peter Kavinsky._

“Lara Jean Covey,” the guy reads again, for confirmation.  He peers closer at me, a hint of disbelief.  “You’re with Kavinsky?”

I don’t like the way he says it as if I’m part of a set, especially when Peter and I haven’t talked about what we are to each other, yet.  At the same time, though, part of me is hurt.  Is it really so unbelievable? The idea of me and Peter?

“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin.

“Okay, and what about her?” He gestures to Alex.

“She’s with me.” I tighten my grip on Alex’s arm.

“Okay, okay.” Brown-hair looks impatient; he jots something down on his clipboard, then waves us in.  “Go, go inside.”

Throwing an annoyed look over her shoulder, Alex guides me up the steps.  As I reach for the door, I can’t help hearing snatches of the argument behind us:

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t let you in without ID,” the door guard is saying.  “We’re getting real close to capacity, and I’m on strict orders to only let in friends and guests of KA at this point.”

“But I _am_ a guest of KA!”

“All right—what did you say your name was?”

“Becky.”

“All right, Becky, who invited you?”

“Peter Kavinsky.”

“Nice try.”

“I’m serious! We were talking about it this morning.”

Beside me, Alex has her head cocked, frowning.

“Let’s just go inside,” I say quickly.  “Alex.” I tug on her arm.  “I want to go inside.”

“Ughhh, I’m texting him right now,” Becky is saying.

And then, before we can go inside, Peter comes around the side of the house, face lit up by his phone.  The grass crunches under his feet as he walks over to Becky, who waves at him vigorously, a triumphant look on her face. 

“Peter!” she says, leaping out of the line to give him a hug.

“Becky!” He dips a little with her weight but recovers quickly, swinging her around to set her back on her feet.

And then, looking over her shoulder, he sees me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sos it's 2 AM where i am i'm posting this now but I'm going to wake up tomorrow and there will be so many typos and I will probably cry


	6. when it's real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to everyone who messaged me and commented "WHO IS BECKY" - as usual, the REAL villain is emotional constipation :P

Drunkenness might make me clumsy, but panic gives me clarity.  The door swings open, two girls stumbling out, their faces flushed.  Before Alex can react, I shrug out of her grip and into the writhing mess of bodies, Peter’s “Whoa whoa whoa” swallowed by the pumping bass.

Inside, the temperature is downright tropical.  The floor is sticky with spilled drinks; I make it three steps before I step on a discarded red Solo cup, cracking it into plastic shards like an egg.  Tucking my arms in close to my sides, I take a deep breath and _shove,_ pushing my way through the crowd and hoping that everyone is too enthralled with the music and with each other to notice a five-foot-three girl on the brink of meltdown. 

I want to unsee it.  I think maybe, if I slip and hit my head on the corner of one of the tables people are dancing on, that will be enough to erase what I’ve just seen.  Peter and—Becky.  He caught her so easily.  I can’t even touch him, and—

“Hey, watch it.”  Some girl breaks away from making out with her partner long enough to glare at me; I shrink away.  Eventually, blessedly, I stumble upon a quiet corner, bracing myself against the wall.  The room is slightly blurry—I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or a possible onset of tears. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Someone tall looms in my vision.  “Do you need some water?”

“Give her some space.”  Suddenly Peter’s there, and he’s tall, too, and I want to laugh.  Of course he found me.  Why is Peter so good at finding me when I don’t want to be found?  “Lara Jean, listen, I can explain—”

“Is this guy bothering you?”

“Listen, man, I’m just trying to talk to her—”

“I think she can tell me that herself, yeah?”

“Lara Jean.” Alex bursts through the two of them like they’re paper dolls, reaching for my hands.  It’s so loud, but I hear her anyways.  “Signal, remember?” she prompts, squeezing.  “Just give me the signal, and we leave.”

Knowing I have an escape route settles me.  I look up.  Peter and Tall Guy are arguing, but Peter keeps glancing over at me.  There’s a panicky look on his face.

“I’ll hear him out,” I tell Alex, stepping toward Peter.  He notices my approach and moves aside to make space, though not before leveling a glare at Tall Guy.

It’s another hard-fought battle to get to the sliding doors that lead out into the courtyard, but it’s significantly quieter there, especially when everyone else scrams at a look from Peter.  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he gazes at me, and it’s so soft and fraught with worry that I can’t meet it, opting instead to stare at the ground.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Peter starts, “don’t.”

I suck in a breath.  It’s cold out here, especially in comparison to the sauna inside.  “That’s not very comforting, Peter.”

More quiet.  The sound of shoes scuffing the ground. 

Peter exhales.  “It was a pledge quota thing, okay?” he finally says.  “We had to invite a certain number of girls.  It didn’t mean anything.”

I know what he’s trying to imply.  That Becky was just here to be a number.  But the thought strikes: I was another of those numbers, too.  Back on Brown-hair’s clipboard, penciled in like an afterthought.

“Gee, you really know how to make a girl feel special.”

“Lara Jean.”  Peter stares at me, aghast.  “You can’t possibly think—”

“Where’d you meet her?  Tinder, too?  Am I just a collectible to you, Peter?  Pick me up and put me in your pocket?”

My voice is more venomous than I thought it could be.  I didn’t think I could get this way.  I thought I’d be an affectionate drunk, but maybe I’m a mean one.

Peter’s staring at me as if he’s never seen me before.  “Don’t turn this around on me, Lara Jean,” he says, voice low.  “Don’t act like I’m the one who’s been stringing you along, when this whole time I’ve—” He cuts himself off and looks to the side, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“When you’ve what?”

“When I’ve been _in love_ with you.”

Before my mind can fully process the words, my body reacts, shrinking away.  I always imagined my first love confession as something quiet, delicate—not rough and half-angry in the middle of a trashed courtyard.  It doesn’t make sense.  It isn’t how I thought it’d be. 

“Since when?”

“Since when—god, Lara Jean.”  Peter pinches the bridge of his nose; his voice comes out cracked.  “I confess to you, and all you want to know is _when._   It just happened, okay?  I know you want it to be this poetic realization, but it wasn’t one of your—epiphanies.  I can’t package it into a pretty, perfect moment.  I’m sorry if that’s inconvenient for you.”

I’m shivering, now.  We both are.

“I—I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“That you feel, even a little bit, the same.”  Peter shakes his head, and something sparks in his eyes: hurt, mixed with disappointment.  “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.  Because I knew you’d react like this.”

I wrap my arms around myself, as if they’ll hold me together.  “I’m not reacting like anything.”

“Yes, you are.  You do this _thing_ , Lara Jean, where you retreat into your shell when things get scary.” 

“That’s not true!  Since I’ve come to college, I’ve done _nothing_ but put myself out there.  I’ve joined clubs.  I’ve taken leadership. I even came to this _stupid_ frat party, just to see you.”

Peter’s eyes flash.  “Good to know my interests are stupid to you.”

“That’s—that’s not what I meant.”

 ** _This_** _is why I’m scared,_ I want to tell him.  Because we’re already hurting each other, and we aren’t even together. 

Drawing back, Peter says, “You know what, Lara Jean, it’s whatever.  I’ve been trying my best to meet you where you are, but clearly it isn’t working.  And I can’t tell if you’re running because you’re scared, or because you want to be chased, but either way, I can’t keep up with this fantasy.  Let me know when you decide whether or not you want this for real.”

He turns away, reaching for the screen door to go back inside.  The moonlight catches his hair as he leaves, and I think: I should have seen this coming.  Of course we were going to break each other’s hearts.

 

♡

 

“Up and at ‘em, tiger.”  My bed sinks with added weight.  Blinking through sleep-crusted eyes, I roll over to see Alex hovering over me, a towel around her neck.  My face is free of last night’s makeup, and I changed into my pajamas, but staring at Alex’s freshly-scrubbed cheeks gives me a sudden urge to shower as well.

“I’m giving you a strict 24-hour wallowing period,” Alex says, holding up her phone.  “Starting now.”

I move to pull the covers back over my head.  “I’m not wallowing.”

“Yes, you are.” Alex pokes my shoulder.  “And that’s _fine._   That’s the point of the 24-hour period.  If there’s any talking you need to do, I’d do it now.”

“He told me he was in love with me and I didn’t say a word.”  I stare at the ceiling, the corners of my eyes prickling.  Part of me knows we had a similar conversation last night, but that I’d been significantly less coherent.  “He said it was because—because I was scared.”

Alex gives me a sympathetic look.  “I mean—it’s a lot.  It’s not your fault if you aren’t on the same page.”

“I don’t even know what page I’m on anymore.”  I thought I knew the difference, between love and like.  It seemed so clear on paper.  Was Peter right?  Do I only think of love as an ideal, but shrink away from its reality?

“All right, different question.  Peter said you were scared.  So if you are, what are you afraid of?”

“That I’ll ruin it.” I exhale.  “Peter and I had a good thing going.  It was new and confusing, but at least that meant—I never felt like I had to act a certain way.  But if we make it this real relationship, there’d be a different set of expectations… and what if I do it all wrong?  Then I’d lose him for good.  And it’ll hurt because this time I’ll have actually tried and failed.”

Alex considers my words, toweling off the wet ends of her hair.

“I don’t think being in a relationship with him is what gives him the ability to hurt you, Lara Jean,” she says.  “Friends do it all the time, too.  The moment you opened up to him, he always had that power.  And so the question isn’t about whether or not it’ll hurt—it’s whether you’re willing to have it, and work for it, even when it does.”

I let the words sink in.  “Has anyone ever told you that you’d make a good therapist?”

Rolling her eyes, Alex pats my ankle.  “First consultation’s free, but I’ll start charging.”

She leaves me to ponder in peace.  In the morning, everything seems so much clearer than it did the night before.  Before college, the idea of me and Peter was a fantasy, a distant dream.  But we’ve seen each other up close, now.  And I think: it’s been less than a day, but I miss him, and isn’t that the only answer I need?I want to try.

I reach for my phone.  Before I navigate to my texts, though, my finger drifts to Tinder instead.  It’s the sentimental side of me; I want to revisit our beginning, if only to smile to myself about how far we’ve come.

When I open the app, though, there’s nothing there.  Zero matches.  I pull down the screen to refresh, wondering if there’s a glitch.  Log out and log back in.  Still nothing.  Even as I’m typing into the search bar, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  _User has unmatched with you or deleted their account._

When Peter said to let him know whether we were going to be for real, I thought that meant he’d wait.  But the answer blinks up at me, a blank screen.  Erased with the touch of a button.  The decision already made.

 

♡

 

“You guys, we’re going to be late,” Sadie whines, nursing the bottle of rosé. 

“Relax, Sadie, it’s only 11:15.  We’re just going to be milling around like awkward freshmen if we show up now,” says Arya, fixing her earrings.

“But that’s the point,” Sadie pouts.  “That’s what we are.”

Alex shakes her head.  _Hopeless,_ she mouths, making eye contact with me.

I smile.  The anticipation is infectious.  Full Moon on the Lawn is the quintessential freshman event of the year: everyone gathers on the Lawn to exchange roses and kisses at midnight, under the light of the full moon.  There’s supposed to be a student band playing, and some people make bingo cards with squares like _kiss an athlete_ or _kiss a business major._   The romantic in me is alive, fantasizing about a scenario where I meet eyes with a mysterious stranger and the crowd parts as we approach each other, moved by an inexplicable, magnetic attraction.

There’s a smaller part of me that’s thinking about Peter, but it’s been two weeks since our fight and the twinges are starting to come less often.  I remember the phone call we had over Thanksgiving break. How we talked about healing.  _“When you can think back on it, and have it hurt, but still be able to move forward—I think that’s when you know it’s for real.”_

That’s what I’m doing now.  Moving forward.  It still hurts to think about Peter, and maybe that’s the sign that it was all real, however short-lived.  But tonight I’ll turn that page.  Officially.  For good.

“Lara Jean.” Leah calls my name.  “Are you ready?”

I slide off my bed, bouncing on my toes.  “Let’s go.”

 

♡

 

The February air bites at my nose as I stand outside, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.  Leah has her arm linked through mine and keeps tugging on it as she rises on her tiptoes, whipping her head from side to side.  I severely underestimated how inconvenient our height difference can be at times.  My white rose is a little droopy; I try to shift my grip on it, hoping that it won’t lose its head before I can give it to someone.

“Do you see him?” I ask.

“No,” sighs Leah, hanging her head.  Leah’s had a crush on this guy in her lab section for the past month, and she’s hoping to get a kiss out of him tonight.  “There are too many people.  Hey Sadie.”  She leans over me to talk to Sadie, who’s in the middle of arguing with Arya about whether a pearl should be considered a gem.  “Hypothetical math problem: what are the odds of me bumping into Lab Boy before the end of the night?”

Before Sadie can puzzle out the calculation, she’s interrupted by the distant sound of a drumroll.

“Ten seconds!” hisses Alex from in front of me, turning around.

The information gets passed back in waves; if anyone’s still wondering what exactly is happening, it becomes quickly obvious with the mass chant: “Five! Four! Three! Two! One!”

Laughing, my friends and I turn toward each other.

“May I kiss you?” Duncan asks very seriously, because several instructional videos on the nature and importance of consent were circulated before this event.  Giggling, I nod, and he pecks me on the forehead.  I do the same with Alex, Sadie, and Arya, giving each of them kisses on the cheek, before Leah’s tugging me along. 

“Come on, we have love to find!”

It turns out that’s easier said than done when you’re slogging through a bunch of hormonal young adults.  We keep getting stopped.  Leah gets caught in a pretty intense liplock with some dude with swoopy brown hair—I raise my eyebrows at her when they break apart and he continues moving through the crowd. 

“I think I’ve seen him at the gym once,” she whispers.

“I like your stripes!” Somebody else calls, and Leah whirls around to flash a thumbs-up, the hood of her tiger onesie flopping over her head.

I turn around with her, and that’s when I see him.  Standing there, staring right back at me.  I’m onto my fifth rose swap, the corner of my mouth tingling with the pressure of my last kiss, but it’s like all of that fades away and it’s just Peter, in a blue hoodie, moving toward me like a wave to the shore.

“Hey, Covey.” He stops right in front of me; his voice cracks.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, as if he’s some long-lost acquaintance and not a boy who, for whatever reason, I can’t bring myself to stop thinking about.

“I came to apologize,” says Peter.  “I know… I said I’d wait, and let you decide.  But I’ve been going crazy without you, Lara Jean.”

My mouth opens and closes.  I can’t process this.  I thought we were done; I thought _he_ wanted us done.  But then why—

“You quit me,” I say, poking his chest.  “Cold turkey.”

Peter wraps a hand around my index finger, taking a step back.  “What are you talking about—”

“I was going to respond!  To tell you how I felt.  And then I went and opened up the app and everything was _gone,_ like you’d just up and erased the whole thing—”

“Whoa whoa whoa.”  Peter frowns.  “Are you talking about _Tinder?_   Lara Jean, I deleted my profile because I wanted to make it clear I wasn’t looking for anyone else.  Because I want _you._ ”

Whatever heat I felt earlier has burned away; now, I’m trembling.  What a mess.  What a pair of idiots, the two of us.

“I hate you,” I say.  “I hate you almost as much as I love you, Peter Kavinsky.”

Shock registers across his face, followed swiftly by delight.  His nose wrinkles; he pulls me closer.  “You _love_ me?”

I can’t meet his eyes.  The golden specks dancing in them, the joy.

“You didn’t make it easy,” I grumble.

Letting go of my hand, Peter cradles my face instead, thumbs sweeping gently over my cheeks.  “Yeah?” he says, soft.  “Well, neither did you.”

Our noses are almost touching when I blurt: “You’re not holding a rose.”

“Covey.”  Peter groans, but he’s laughing, too.  “I kind of have other things on my mind.  Right now, a rose is the least of my concerns.”

“What kind of other things?” I tease, feigning innocence.

“Kissing you,” he answers, and his voice is that delicious lowness that sends a tingle up my spine.  He stops a hairsbreadth away from my lips, searching.  “Can I?”

Instead of answering, I rise to meet him, tilting my head as I go.  No more waiting games; no more _what if._   Peter takes a tiny step back to adjust our angle, and then he’s kissing me in return, hands tangling in my hair, running down my back, hugging me around the waist to bring me even closer.

“When did you know?” he asks, when we finally break apart.  “How you felt.”

I bite my lip.  I feel warm all over; I think I could live the rest of my life attached to him like this.

“I don’t know,” I say.  “It just happened.”  And I’m smiling because I know it’s okay that way.  I didn’t get my pivotal moment.  I got something better: a collection of smaller ones that, taken together, build a whole. 

Love isn’t just one choice; it’s a series of them, made over and over.  Clumsy and messy, maybe.  Imperfect. 

But I choose Peter.  I choose this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand that's a wrap!!! thank you thank you to everyone who's been so warm in your responses to this fic; it was truly a pleasure to write for you all. <3 I'm back to my backlog of oneshot prompts (can you believe that this is like.... one of the first multichapters I've actually finished L M A O) but you haven't seen the last of me!!! Please come talk to me on [tumblr](https://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/mnonoaware)! I'm always down to scream about romcoms, YA novels, and the like.
> 
> and also if there are other AUs you'd like to see of these two, feel free to suggest those too??? I'm always down for headcanon-ing and bullet fic, even if it doesn't become something full blown.
> 
> OK END LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE, I'M CALLING IT A NIGHT BC I HAVE A SPLITTING HEADACHE BUT **TLDR: I LOVE Y'ALL I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS LIL THING <3 **


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